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Ledger Library. 
No. 83. 


THE 


Honor of a Heart 


FROM THE GERMAN OF VACANO, 

By Mary J. Safford. 


ILLUSTRATED BY F. A. CARTER. 



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A Romance of New Orleans in the Olden Time. 


THE 

KING OF HONEY ISLAND. 

r by 

MAURICE THOMPSON, 

Author of “A Tallahassee Girl,” “ The Fighting at Point Rose,” 
“ His Second Campaign ,” etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. M. EATON. 

8vo. 343 pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth.. Price, $1.50. 
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“ The King of Honey Island ” is a romance of society in New 
Orleans in the days of creole ascendency, when General Jackson 
won his famous victory behind the cotton-bales and drove the 
British invaders back to their ships. Piracy was not yet extir- 
pated, and smuggling was extensively carried on. The neighbor- 
ing West India islands and the intricate water-ways of the mouth 
of the Mississippi afforded a great field for illegitimate transac- 
tions. The author has made skillful use of the rich materials 
which the time and locality furnish. The rich and luxurious 
homes of the Louisiana planters in the old French city afford a 
striking contrast to the scenery and adventures of the maritime 
outlaws who infested the neighboring waters. The incidents are 
stirring, and the interest of the story never flags. The author is 
one of the most popular writers that the South has produced, and 
in this story he deals with a subject than which no phase of Amer- 
ican life and history affords a more suitable subject for romance. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


5 


THE HONOR OF A HEART. 





























































I 
































* 
















t 



















THE HONOR OF A HEART 


21 JJcrocL 


BY 


( 5 m- ^^VACANO. 

♦ # 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 


By MARY J. SAFFORD. 

l /\ 

V - 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. A . CARTER . 


Y v * 


may a 1893 


NEW YORK: 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 



PUBLISHERS. 


THE LEDGER LIBRARY : ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, TWELVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. NO. 83, 
APRIL 15, 1893. ENTERED AT THE NEW YORK, N. Y., POST OFFICE A8 SECOND CLA88 MAIL MATTER. 





COPYRIGHT, 1893, 

By ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 


(All rights reserved.) 



I 





THE HONOR OF A HEART. 


CHAPTER I. 

N the most squalid quarter of a large 
capital, among old, narrow, dilapidated 
houses, stands a dwelling, still more 
ancient, narrow, and ruinous than any 
of its neighbors. The lower story is 
occupied by a shop where second-hand 
goods are sold, which smell as if a crop 
of mushrooms were growing in the 
dark corners. At the back an old man 
notes in a dirty, dog’s-eared book the articles he has 
bought and sold. He deals in old clothes, paper, 
bones, rags, pictures, ladies’ bonnets, and sometimes 
articles which suspicious-looking individuals, enter- 
ing the back shop— where a faint ray of light strug- 

[ 7 ] 



8 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


gles through the dust-covered window — draw from 
their fathomless pockets, keeping meantime their 
red, bleared eyes intently fixed upon the door. On 
such occasions gold often glitters and disappears in 
Herr Ilde’s desk like a flash of lightning. Herr 
Ilde has never yet appeared before the courts as a 
receiver of stolen goods ; hitherto he has been for- 
tunate. The old house is known as a lucky one. 
All its inmates are suspicious characters, thieves 
and adventurers; yet no one has ever been arrested 
within its walls. This fact is well-known to all 
vagabonds, and the wretched rooms in the miserable 
dwelling never stand empty. Rogues are as super- 
stitious as lovers. 

At the present time the damp, dirty apartments 
have the following occupants : The first story is 
rented to Herr Temper, who wears handsome black 
whiskers, a paste breast-pin, and a large, dirty shirt- 
collar. He asserts that he is on intimate terms with 
all the nobles in the country, and the statement is 
believed, for he is never absent from the races, and 
always returns with a number of pocket-handker- 
chiefs. Moreover, he is fond of gambling until 
almost dawn in the back rooms of second-class coffee- 
houses, where rich farmers lose their money like 
lords. 

Part of the second story is occupied by a poor 
woman, a soldier’s widow, who, since her husband’s 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


9 


death, has given herself up to drink, and now hangs 
about the inns and rents lodgings to discharged 
privates; the remaining portion by a man who 
introduced himself to Herr Ilde under the name of 
Moor. No one has ever seen his face, not even Herr 
Ilde, who only met him one November evening in 
the dim light of his back shop, on which occasion 
Herr Moor was muffled to the nose in a red woolen 
comforter. 

In the third story three lodgers live in three 
adjoining rooms ; first a rope-dancer at the “ Or- 
pheus,” who merely performs his feats on the trapeze 
to be able to claim a profession in his dealings with 
the law. He is effeminate, very affected, and rouges , 
but extremely handsome, and scarcely beyond child- 
hood. Then comes a Frenchman, Monsieur Jacques, 
an ex-lackey, who has a sharp, brown, wicked 
face, and the remnants of polished manners. He 
still wears a livery, and says he is trying to get 
another place, but meantime lives by no means 
uncomfortably on unknown resources. Next door 
to him dwells a factory girl, who rarely comes home, 
often only once a week, and sometimes not for 
several months. She is fair, slight, and always 
wears an old black veil on her bonnet. A very 
quiet lodger, who really lives at the factory where 
she works, and only comes here on her few holidays 
with her brother — a shabbily dressed young man — 


10 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


that they may talk undisturbed. Such a lodging is 
rather an unusual luxury for a factory girl, but Herr 
Ilde says Fraulein Lina is a “sly one,” and the 
brother undoubtedly a lover, whom the owner of the 
factory will not countenance ; for the old man once 
saw the young girl, as a protection against the 
insufferable odor of vegetables which always fills 
the narrow staircase, draw from her pocket and 
press to her old black veil a handkerchief which 
must have cost at least four florins. 

Fraulein Lina never remained all night, and on 
that account was Herr Ilde’s favorite lodger, for he 
had a key to all the rooms in his house, and an 
intoxicated or hard pressed friend had often found 
shelter in the young girl’s empty room, without the 
slightest fear that the intruder would be discovered 
by her unexpected return. 

The whole narrow, dirty street was full of dingy, 
cellar-like shops, in which torn clothes and boots, 
waste-paper and broken glass, moulded and rotted, 
and was thronged by loathsome, greedy-looking men, 
goingtoand from their “ work” in the neighboring 
alleys. 

An old woman with a bundle of dirty clothes on 
her shoulders stood still in the midst of the crowd, 
looking steadily up at one of the windows in Herr 
Ilde’s house. 

A man who dealt in worn-out hats paused beside 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART 


It 


her, and followed the direction of her glance. Soon 
ten persons assembled, and then a crowd, that began 
to chatter and talk. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Herr Ilde, coming 
out of his shop with his spectacles on his nose, 
holding his dirty dressing-gown together. “ Why 
are you all gaping at my house ?” 

A dozen harsh voices instantly replied, but he 
could make nothing of the answer and was obliged 
to enter the crowd and stare up himself. There he 
saw dangling from one of the third-story windows 
of his own house an object which somewhat re- 
sembled a doll. Herr Ilde, as one of the old clothes 
dealers asserted, turned green with indignation ; it 
was a man, who had put a noose round his neck 
and then let himself slide over the sill! 



CHAPTER II. 

Castle Kopa, near the capital, was a huge con- 
glomeration of rococo wings and modern architec- 
ture. The ancient edifice had been built for centu- 
ries, and was not yet completed, though it resembled 
a little city rather than the residence of a mere 
nobleman. The Counts von Kopa had always been 
extremely hospitable, and considered it their duty 
to constantly add new suites of rooms to the older 
apartments, as if to blind themselves to the increas- 
ing loneliness of their home, for during the last few 
years the Kopa family had become startlingly small. 
For two or three generations the principal line had 
suffered from some hereditary disease, which never 
permitted them to enjoy sound health, and the 
younger brothers usually died in foreign countries 
or were killed in some duel. It was a peculiarity 
of the race that the younger sons were always what 
the French term “ mauvais snjets.” 

The huge park that surrounded the castle was 
also a conglomeration of various tastes and periods. 

[12] 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


13 


One portion, laid out in true English style, where 
the rambler sank in the tall grass as if it were deep 
water, and the ivy twined luxuriantly around the 
trunks of gigantic trees, adjoined a dainty triangular 
garden, with closely-clipped shrubs and crumbling 
stone statues, which represented dwarfs in court 
costume, or goddesses with floating draperies. 

When spring approached, the rooms in the newest 
wing were always aired, the oil paintings, which 
had been rolled together and placed in a corner, put 
back in their frames, the chandeliers released from 
their dusty gauze covers, and during the March 
days, when the wind roared and the snow whirled 
outside, a bright fire was kept in the chimney-pieces, 
though no one occupied the apartments. 

It always makes a singular impression upon the 
mind to see comfortably furnished rooms, whose 
windows look out upon a feudal park, and whose 
hearths glow with bright fires, which cast a vivid 
light on the dark oil paintings, and yet where noth- 
ing lives, breathes, smiles, or moves. 

On such days the wind always dies away toward 
evening, and handsome young Heinrich, the valet , 
who spent the winter at the castle with the old stew- 
ard, said to his companion : “How happy people might 
be here ; it is incomprehensible why the family don’t 
live at Castle Kopa instead of always going away.” 


14 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


But “ the family ” never came until after the first 
flowers had bloomed, and it was so this year. 

Warm fires and the spring breezes had brightened, 
purified, and made fragrant all the apartments in 
the inhabited wing when the owner arrived, Count 
Leuthold Kopa, the head of the family, with his 
dignity, gray hair, and affable smile. With him 
came his younger brother, Captain Count Oswald 
Kopa. This brother had had a different mother, 
and was by no means rich. It was said that Count 
Leuthold’s father, Count Raimond, was utterly 
ruined when he married the deformed old Fraulein 
von Marrbach. Leuthold was the son of this 
moneyed match, which added a magnificent new 
wing to the castle. On his mother’s death, the 
whole colossal fortune was bequeathed to her only 
son. The old count now married a second time : 
his early love, the poor Countess Albina Heeringen, 
and the son of this marriage, Count Oswald, inherited 
only his father’s greatly diminished property. Thus 
it happened that the social positions of the two 
brothers were as diverse as their ages. Count 
Oswald was a handsome, brown-haired young man 
of eight-and-twenty ; he had formerly been captain 
in a regiment of cavalry, and then spent some time 
in Paris — it was said on terms of mortal enmity with 
his step-brother, and in the most abject poverty, as 
he had long since squandered his small property. 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART 


15 


Now, however, they were reconciled, and the care- 
less ex-soldier yawned away his life in the family 
castle. 

There was also an orphaned relative belonging 
to the party, a little girl of seven, Countess Flora 
Kopa-Rinkhausen, with her young governess, Frau- 
lein Jennie Lorm, who was teacher and turtle-dove 
in one. A second orphaned relative. Countess 
Marie Rinkhausen, was expected in a few days from 
Heimthal, where her mother had just died. 

Two large carriages had brought the family, and 
a third conveyed the servants. 

The steward, clad in a dress coat, had received 
them at the portico, and the young valet, Heinrich, 
peeped from behind the folding-doors, to catch a 
glimpse of the new maid, who must surely come 
with them, for the little countess and her governess 
employed the same servant. 

It was a lovely evening in early summer when 
the carriages stopped in the soft sand. A warm, 
broad, crimson stream of sunlight fell obliquely 
across the avenue, between two marble goddesses 
and two of the columns of the portico. A little 
brown-haired girl first sprang from the carriage 
into the arms of a servant, who had jumped from 
the box. Then a handsome young man appeared, 
and with a few careless words turned to offer his 
hand to a little fair woman, about five-and-twenty, 


16 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


attired in a gray travelling dress, with a gray gauze 
veil twisted around her head ; and, lastly, Count 
Leuthold himself, a stout, gray-haired man of fifty, 
was received in the arms of half-a-dozen people as if 
in a cloud^He liked to drive in a carriage with 
others, to be entertained, and always alighted last, 
that he might not lose his dignity by undue haste. 

These four persons with the steward and servants 
lingered a moment in the broad, red light of the 
setting sun, talking together. 

Three men-servants and a black-haired, keen-eyed 
French maid alighted from the second carriage, and 
also pressed forward into the sunlight. The steward 
uttered his annual flowery speech of welcome, and 
the whole party ascended the steps, vanishing like 
glowing iron suddenly dipped in water as they left 
the strip of sunshine. 

The carriages drove around the castle to the 
stables ; the keeper of the park gates, who had also 
come up to make his bow to his master, returned to 
his cottage, and nothing remained on the terrace 
except a flock of birds, which once more ventured 
down to the ground from the nearest trees, and the 
rosy sunlight. 

When this disappeared, the whole castle seemed 
frozen. A gray, cold sky appeared to recede from 
the earth, and the leaves rustled faintly. 

A child’s face was visible at one of the windows, 



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THE HONQR OF THE HEART. 


IT 


gazing eagerly into the garden, and a pair of little 
hands vainly tried to raise the sash. 

At the same moment the window directly under- 
neath opened and the handsome ex-captain appeared 
at it to survey the landscape. He heard the noise 
above him and looked up. 

“ I can’t open it, Fraulein Jenny,” said the child. 

The small white hand of the pretty, fairy-like 
governess opened the window, and her fair face 
smiled beside the child’s. 

“ There is Uncle Oswald !” cried the little girl. 

“ Ah ! you want to become familiar with the scene 
you will see daily and hourly for the next few 
weeks? It is not well to make its acquaintance 
to-night, count — it will give the landscape a tinge of 
gloom, ’’ said the governess, laughing. 

“ You are right,” replied Count Oswald, with a 
reflection of the mournfulness of the twilight on his 
face, and drew back into his room. 



CHAPTER ITT. 

Count Leuthold Kopa had lived for years under 
the shadow of his name, untouched by the world 
and the rough cliffs and edges, which this bottom of 
the sea of heaven usually offers mortals. Count 
Leuthold lived in his sumptuous apartments, his 
parks, his carriages, his boxes at the theatres, and 
the private rooms at clubs, with the pedestal of his 
ancient ancestry under his feet. He led a life sur- 
rounded as by a velvet mantle, with centuries of 
grandeur, and sheltered from every rude breeze 
that blows over our imperfect earth. He possessed 
great wealth, a noble name, high honors, and splen- 
did expectations. 

Count Leuthold was by no means a proud man. 
On the contrary, he was kind-hearted, amiable, 
and fond of pleasure. He was an aristocrat in the 
best sense of the word, like all the Kopas before 
him. Perhaps he would not have shrunk from 
embracing a brave vagabond who had saved a 
peasant’s child from the flames ; but the thought 

[18] 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


19 


that he should ever be compelled to rise, without 
finding a servant ready to wait on him, would have 
been his death. II en serait tombe raide mort. 

Count Leuthold was about fifty years old. In his 
youth he had been forced to marry, but his wife 
had died young, leaving no children, and since that 
time the count had remained a widower. A cheer- 
ful widower, who, wrapped in the velvet cloak of 
his rank, moved lightly over the rough edges of our 
imperfect world. 

A faint shadow had perhaps been cast upon his 
life — but not deep enough to reach his heart — by 
the frivolity of his younger brother, with whom he 
had lived for two years in that mute, total estrange- 
ment which every officer who has allowed vast 
debts to be paid by the head of his family has 
experienced. For some time, however, my lord had 
been reconciled to his brother, though not until the 
latter, faute d' argent, had been compelled to lead a 
vagabond life a whole year in Paris. And this was 
the manner in which it had come about. 

The fairy-like blonde governess of the little 
Countess Flora Kopa-Rinkhausen, Count Leuthold, 
and the orphan herself were sitting together one 
evening beside the comfortable English-looking 
hearth of the tea-room, in the winter palace. The 
little girl, while turning the leaves of a picture- 
book, suddenly asked, “ Uncle Leuthold, tell me 


20 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


who is the handsome officer hanging there?” and 
she pointed to a portrait on the wall, winking slyly 
at Fraulein Jenny, as if to make her notice how 
crafty she was. 

Count Leuthold became a shade less cheerful, 
coughed, frowned, and said, “ Nonsense !” This 
was due to the honor of the family. But Flora 
would not let the matter drop, teased for an answer, 
and at last, in her artless, childish fashion, drew her 
young governess, Fraulein Jenny, into the conver- 
sation, which became a lengthy one, for Count Leu- 
thold seemed glad to have an opportunity, without 
any abatement of his dignity, to speak of his brother 
who was wandering about somewhere in France, 
because he was deserted, on account of his frivolity. 

Fraulein Jenny had opened her greenish gray 
eyes very wide, and in her pretty, curious, girlish 
way, asked : “ And isn’t that a very illogical exam- 

ple, Herr Count ?” 

“ Illogical !” cried Count Leuthold, in unutterable 
amazement, looking around him as if to consult his 
ancestors, who were hanging far away from him in 
Castle Kopa. Count Leuthold always acted accord- 
ing to the traditions of his race, and in good families 
it is a tradition to abandon worthless members. 

N. 

This custom had lasted for centuries. And now a 
dainty little plebian girl ventured to say that a 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


21 


custom which had lasted for centuries was illogical ! 
Count Leuthold was utterly amazed. 

“ Certainly,” continued Fraulein Jenny, as she 
poured out a second cup of tea for the count, in 
doing which her slender white hand trembled under 
the weight of the silver tea urn. “ If a relative is 
frivolous, to abandon him is a poor way to make him 
more sedate ; is he not, under such circumstances, 
almost forced to fall ? I think those are the very 
relatives who ought not to be permitted to go out 
of our sight — for their own sake, for the sake of the 
family, they ought to be fed to death rather than 
left to starve — on account of consistency.” 

Count Leuthold gazed intently at the fire. He 
would have been a very intellectual man had he 
lived less luxuriously, borne a name which had not 
been distinguished for centuries. “Yes,” said he, 
“ that may be true, but it is not customary, Frau- 
lein.” 

Fraulein Jenny laughed merrily. “Oh! railroads 
were not customary either, when they were first 
used. But would you continue to travel in post- 
chaises, Herr Count?” 

Count Leuthold started as if he felt a sudden 
twinge of the gout, then joined in the laugh, and 
the whole conversation ended in a jest. But in the 
course of a few weeks this jest brought the ex-sol- 
dier to London, and Count Leuthold and his brother 


22 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


were friends again. The former said, “ This is our 
little cousin, Flora, who has lost both her parents. 
You never saw them, as you were always stationed 
in some garrison. And Marie Rinkhausen has 
become an orphan, too, so I have told her she 
should make one of the family. My home will be 
almost gay, Oswald,” and he smiled kindly at his 
brother. “ This is Fraulein Jenny Lorm,” he added, 
and Count Oswald bowed. 

Count Oswald, as has already been mentioned, 
was an extremely handsome young man, with that 
indescribable air of high breeding which seems to 
take it for granted that everything is at its service. 
He had a way of ordering a servant to sit in a car- 
riage which reminded one of the condescension of a 
sovereign. It was the lordly manner which origin- 
ates partly in the innate impulses of birth, partly 
from a French education. His face always wore the 
bright, open expression which springs not from 
happiness but carelessness. His elder brother, 
Count Leuthold, possessed more of the condescend- 
ing cordiality of the English nobility, while Count 
Oswald had the easy grace of the French aristoc- 
racy. He was, however, even more unapproach- 
able than his elder brother, unapproachable in his 
indifference. Women who loved the handsome 
officer must always have felt their hearts quail with 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


23 


despair at the thought: “ How can this careless, 
indifferent, negligent man feel anything?’' 

On the evening the family arrived, he walked 
through the corridor to the little octagonal dining- 
room, humming a song, and asked one of the ser- 
vants, in a high-pitched, somewhat hoarse voice: 
“ Are they all there ?” to which the man — a good- 
looking lad, with shining brown hair — answered in 
the affirmative, and drew back against the wall. 
Count Oswald stopped singing as he crossed the 
threshold. The windows were covered with heavy 
green curtains, a lamp hung over the round table. 
Count Leuthold was just having a discussion with 
little Flora as to whether Puss in Boots had ever 
been transformed into a man or not, and Fraulein 
Jenny’s transparent, fairy-like hands were fluttering 
among the cups and saucers on the waiter. 

“ ‘ Puss in Boots ’ never was a man, and never 
became one,” said Count Oswald, lazily approach- 
ing the table. 

“ I haven’t sweetened it yet,” observed Fraulein 
Jenny, as she placed his cup before the arm-chair 
he had pushed up to the table. Servants were 
never admitted at tea. 

Count Leuthold rose, and, holding little Flora’s 
fingers in his fat, white hand, approached the table, 
on which the hanging lamp was casting its cheerful, 
brilliant light. 


24 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


“ The park looks so large when we first return 
here,” said Fraulein Jenny, tapping her rococo cup 
lightly with her spoon. “ From our window it 
seems like a wilderness. And when one considers 
that each one of these huge trees is a house, and 
each branch a story, which has its lodgers like the 
dwellings in the capital. Every blade of grass even 
has its poor people, parasites, laborers and thieves.” 

Fraulein Jennv Lorm always had the fanciful ideas 
natural to a childish nature. She spoke three lan- 
guages and a half, played on the piano very correctly, 
sang, and had a good knowledge of geography. This 
was the serious side of her life, and, as a governess, 
she had a right to get rid of it as speedily as possi- 
ble. 

In other respects she was a perfect child, even to 
her smiles, which always appeared when one least 
expected them ; a silly, bewitching, lovable little 
thing— a creature any moderately strong man could 
crush between two fingers. Her figure was per- 
haps too slight even for a fairy ; her limbs seemed 
as if carved from ivory ; her complexion was that 
of a lily ; her hair had the hue of the ripest flax. 
Her features were so delicate and aristocratic that 
they could not help being beautiful. Her mouth 
was extremely mobile, and her eyes always had a 
surprised, startled expression. She involuntarily 
made every one think of a fresh, dewy flower. 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


25 


Her dress was of modest gray silk, and her hair 
smoothly brushed. Her snowy collar and cuffs 
were faultless. 

“ Only that the inhabitants of the park are far 
more stupid than those of a city,” said Count 
Oswald, lazily. “ I’ve never yet been entertained in 
a park.” 

There are really owners of pleasure grounds who 
make this statement. And there are really poor 
people who long for parks. 

“ Because you have no love for nature !” said 
Count Leuthold, passing his fat hand over the stiffly 
starched ruffles of Flora’s dress, as she leaned over 
the back of his chair, twisting her doll’s curls. 

“ Like almost every man,” said Fraulein Jenny, 
naively , pushing a plate of bread a little nearer to 
Count Leuthold. “ Only women admire nature for 
its own sake.” 

Count Oswald laughed. “ They are unhappy, 
are they not ?” 

“ Unhappy ? I don’t know. I have never been 
acquainted with any unhappy women. True, the 
teacher in our orphan school was always sad,” said 
Fraulein Jenny, opening her eyes very wide. 

Count Leuthold broke off a piece of bread. 
“Fraulein Jenny is right,” said he. “ Nature really 
exists only for women. Men merely take it as a 
substitute for society. There is our cousin, Count- 


26 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


ess Marie, who will arrive at the castle to-morrow 
or the day after. Her last letter, in which the poor 
child thanks me for the shelter 1 have offered her, is 
full of sorrowful farewells to the fields around her 
mother’s house, and enthusiastic praises of our 
‘ Paradise ’ here, which is to afford her consolation.” 

Fraulein Jenny’s face assumed a compassionate 
expression, while the ex-officer made a grimace. 
“ Declamations of Solitary,” he said in his skeptical 
French manner, “ which were intended to interest 
the new guardian.” 

Count Leuthold cast a rapid glance at Fraulein 
Jenny Lorm, and then turning to his brother said, 
carelessly : “ De grace — songe qii elle est notre parcnte .” 

“ Mais qiu done la vondrait blamer ? C’cst sa pose a 
elle voilh tout," said Count Oswald, as he pushed his 
chair back, crossed his legs, and stroked the beard 
he wore a la Napoleon III. “ If she were not a rela- 
tive she would scarcely have a reason for joining 
our * happy family.’ You see, I remember. For 
my part I have always had a prejudice against peo- 
ple whose gratitude was as certain as death. One 
doesn’t know how to take them.” 

Fraulein Jenny suddenly burst into a merry, ring- 
ing laugh. “ If you place all dependent relatives in 
this category, Herr Count,” she said, rising from 
the table, “ you are mistaken. Countess Flora is 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


27 


not even grateful enough to find your society 
amusing. Look there.” 

Little Flora, holding her doll rolled into a ball, 
had really fallen asleep, leaning on the back of 
Count Leuthold's chair, and her light floating curls 
mingled with the dead lustreless hair of the toy. 
“ Our tea has been somewhat delayed, and it is long 
past Flora's hour for retiring. Be kind enough to 
put her to bed, Fraulein, and try to have pleasant 
dreams on this, the first evening of our return.” 

Fraulein Jenny waked her pupil with a kiss, and, 
clasping child and doll in her arms, said a bonne nuit , 
and disappeared, while the lamp-light suddenly 
seemed to grow dim. 

After her departure Count Oswald put one foot in 
another chair, and poured out half a glass of rum. 

“ A dear, priceless creature,” said Count Leuthold, 
brushing the crumbs from his shirt. “A perfect 
treasure, after that French dragon, whom the poor 
child hated and feared.” 

“ Indeed !” said Count Oswald. “ l have always 
been indifferent to governesses, as you know. To 
me the whole race seems just alike — at the utmost 
the difference only consists in the greater or less 
degree of hypocrisy they use toward their employ- 
ers.” And he drank his rum and rose. 

Count Leuthold remained seated, and courteously 


28 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


raised his hand. “ Going already,” said he. “ Can’t 
you give me a moment, Oswald ?” 

“Oh ! as many as you like,” replied Oswald, as he 
passed his hand through his hair, leaned on the back 
of his arm-chair, and gazed at his brother with his 
beautiful sleepy eyes. Perhaps he might have felt 
somewhat surprised, but he only looked careless 
and sleepy. 

Count Leuthold settled himself in a comfortable 
position, pushed aside some of the articles on the 
tea-table, and then scrutinized the tips of his fin- 
gers. 

“ I merely wished to employ the first evening of ^ 
our new life here to say a few words about some 
points in our character, which are somewhat unlike, 
but with a little friendly feeling may easily be har- 
monized. I have desired this opportunity ever 
since, after years of variance, we became reconciled 
to each other at Bath three months ago, but could 
never find the right opportunity. Life at watering- 
places and in cities does not bring people in such 
close contact as here in the castle.” 

Count Oswald nodded, while a slight shade of 
sarcasm flitted like a flash of lightning over his 
keen, handsome face. “ Very true,” said he; “a 
remarkably wise observation, brother.” 

Count Leuthold, fixing his eyes steadily on the 
young man’s face, continued : “You know, Oswald, 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


29 


that heretofore our characters have been very un- 
like — perhaps because I am nearly twenty-five years 
older than you — in consequence of which we have 
never really learned to know each other. My tem- 
perament is thoroughly German. I am perfectly 
explicit ; my views are plain. I have perhaps an 
undue respect for old customs, lead the same life 
our ancestors led before me, and think it has been a 
blameless one. You, on the contrary — ” 

Count Oswald made a hasty gesture, but his older 
brother’s hand was again raised. “You on the con- 
trary,” he continued, “ are a younger son — ” 

“ Yes, and after being reared like a prince, was 
thrust, with a miserable pittance, into the army, and 
when I continued my royal style of living, and 
incurred debts, you, who meantime had become 
a rich man and the head of the family, cast me off. 
Voilh tout." 

“Oh! no, no!” replied Count Leuthold, with a 
courteous smile. “ Not at all. And even in money 
matters there would not have been so much occa- 
sion to blame your really chivalric conduct, as in 
observing your mode of life.” 

Count Oswald’s eyes still retained the same sleepy 
expression, but his face had grown a shade darker. 
“ My mode of existence hitherto consisted in taking 
life as I found it, and enjoying what there was to 
enjoy. 1 have very little sentiment, and believe I 


30 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


have never loved or been loved — really and sin- 
cerely, that is, except by silly girls.” 

“Yes, and in your brilliant uniform you have 
visited places, played games, had adventures, and 
performed various eccentric acts, which, though in 
and of themselves very charming and delightful, 
did not quite harmonize with the views of your 
family.” 

“ Especially as they cost money!” cried Oswald, 
with a loud laugh. “ The whole point consists in 
the fact that you are a Croesus and I a beggar. 
Isn’t it so?” 

“ Oh, oh ! We, therefore, found — ” 

“We?” 

“Yes, we — and unfortunately I, as the head of the 
family, was the principal personage in the affair — 
after having repeatedly paid your debts to an 
amount far beyond your modest inheritance, we 
lound ourselves compelled — ” 

“ To abandon me.” 

“ With heavy hearts. You then went to France.” 

“ 1 went to France and there lived — without 
money. I wanted to earn some, and thus a frivo- 
lous young German officer became a frivolous 
French student in the Quartier Latin. I was still 
tolerably comfortable — except for the circumstance 
of being utterly miserable. For I saw no escape. 
I was born a nobleman, and could not cringe before 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


31 


plebeians. I beheld no future, and had no present. 
Sooner or later the end must come in the shape of a 
bullet. Just at that time the noble idea of becom- 
ing reconciled to me occurred to your mind, Leut- 
hold.” 

Count Oswald paused, and again a smile flitted 
over his keen, intellectual face. 

His brother bent his head, and there was real 
dignity, which, like all true dignity, had no tinge of 
condescension, in his face, as he said: “ Yes. The 
thought occurred to me that our race was rapidly 
nearing an end. All the side branches have died 
out. The only remaining descendants are two girls, 
whom, at the most, I can only wed to men of rank. 
If 1 should die you would be the last heir of the 
name, so it is better for us to live together, try to 
become friends. I should like, in case you ever 
continue the family name, to have this good old 
castle kept up in the good old style.'’ 

Count Oswald drew himself up proudly; he never 
looked so handsome as when in anger. His face 
flushed with indignation, his eyes flashed with an 
imperious light, and his voice had a strange tone as 
he said : “ Ah ! all this is very true, et tout ca cost 

d'une justeese exquise. But I should really like to 
hear from your infallible mouth, my dear brother, 
the acknowledged first gentleman of the universe, 
in what sense a gay life is incompatible with a 


32 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


noble name. I have always had an impetuous spirit, 
a Bohemian nature, if you will — I have drank heav- 
ily, fallen in love, and incurred debts — unpardonable 
things, if you choose. But look around you ! 
What heir of a noble family, not gifted by nature 
with the prerogative of dignity, was ever in his 
youth anything but the first of vagabonds? Re- 
member Eriom Rosteani, Raimond Pasoco, Olivier 
Assen, and a dozen other counts and princes — they 
were all mauvais sujets au dernier degre ; do they now 
support the honor of their names more than others?” 
Count Oswald had hurled the words at his brother 
in a sharp, quick, angry manner. Now he passed 
his hand over his brow and pretended to yawn, but 
his eyes remained steadily fixed upon Count Lut- 
hold, who no longer played with the tea-cups and 
examined his finger-nails. His old face, as he 
looked up quietly, reminded one of an oil painting, 
and his voice sounded like music as he said, “Frivol- 
ity, Oswald, is never an antipode of nobility — neither 
frivolity nor vulgarity , repulsive as the latter sounds ; 
but the blending of frivolity with nobility is a stain 
on every name in the end. There are noblemen 
who spend the days of their youth in coffee-houses 
and the slums of the streets, but whose lives in the 
palaces of their ancestors are widely different. In 
the one case they are Bohemians, in the other, 
wearied supporters of their noble names. But there 


THE HONOR OF THE IIEART. 


33 


is a frivolity, a recklessness which not only seeks its 
pleasure in all the pursuits you have named, but 
also in contempt for rank , and this has hitherto been 
the fact with you. A true nobleman may have 
every vice, but never at the time when he has his 
duty to fulfill, his name to uphold, his part to play. 
Common men, Oswald, seek an object, a goal in life ; 
they inquire whether there is a God, and the search 
makes them happy or despairing ; they wish to be 
famous in literature, war, or art, and the struggle 
renders them great or petty, bold or cringing ; they 
want to use the world and humanity, not to live in 
vain, and the effort makes them immortal or ridicu- 
lous. But the nobleman is not permitted to strive 
or seek ; it is his duty to live for the object for 
which he was born ; for the preservation of the 
name, the honor, the grandeur, the spotlessness of 
his great race, or even his little branch. He may- 
be happy, brave, or talented, but his efforts, strug- 
gles and faith must all be concentrated in his name. 
He may have unworthy love affairs, drink hard, or 
gamble, but he cannot be a plebeian, as you formerly 
were, Oswald, for you promised to marry a barmaid, 
were intimate with day-laborers’ sons, provided 
they were talented students, and even pawned your 
diamond order when you lacked money. All this 
is unpardonable ; it is treason to your flag, and very 


34 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


culpable. You are worse than the most frivolous; 
you are — " 

“I arn fearfully bored!” cried Oswald, angrily. 
“Y6s, that is the word. Ever since I could think 
and feel what it was that I was offered and was to 
represent, I found it all nothing — nothing. My 
name was an accident, luxury as well as poverty 
was an accident, the amusements of the dirty inn 
only served to drown thought, and I constantly felt 
a thirst which sprang from loathing ! I could not, 
like any other man, become a poet, though my mind 
was full of songs; I could not be a teacher, for I 
had learned nothing, or a hero, for we had constant 
peace, which made me idle. I found love monoto- 
nous, intoxication too short, struggle hopeless, and 
my rank hollow. I became what I became. Now 
I have done. But I believe I could play my part as 
the head of a family as well as any other man — I 
only need to become blase. And what more?” 

“What more?” said Count Leuthold, drawing a 
long breath as he sank back in his chair, and then 
continued, with his usual graceful courtesy: “If, 
while preparing for satiety, you would kindly lay 
aside some trifling French customs, which come 
directly from the Quartier Latin, and often lead to 
awkward situations — -pour le moment . ” 

“ Ah, and this is said to set an example of — ” 

“ This is said to set an example of frankness.” 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


15 


“ Frank — ” 

“ Yes, I have the greatest esteem and affection for 
Fraulein Jenny Lorm, but in spite of her aristo- 
cratic air she is, after all, only a servant of the 
highest class. You expressed your opinion of Marie 
so freely before her — ” 

Count Oswald burst into a shrill laugh, like any 
student of the Quartier Latin. “ Here is the mouse ! 
Is the mountain relieved ? I will even try to fall in 
love with Countess Marie !” he cried, breathlessly. 

“ If it is in the way that befits a Kopa, it would 
be no undesirable thing/’ replied Count Leuthold, 
gravely. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Herr Ilde’s house, in the out-of-the-way corner of 
the capital, was fairly steeped in blood ; but blood 
that was gradually losing its color; the reflection of 
a hot, burning sun. 

The mortar of the old building, now black with 
age, glowed like fresh roses, and even the dust- 
covered windows tried to glitter ; the gable roof 
was bathed in the sunset radiance, and the larks that 
circled around the chimneys looked like fiery lilies, 
which some storm had torn from their stalks and 
whirled away. 

The dusty blinds of one of the topmost windows 
were thrown open, and two heads were illumined 
by the crimson glow. It was a few days after the 
ghastly human bundle had dangled from the next 
sill — amid the universal sympathy of the populace, 
as the newspapers said. 

One head belonged to the black-haired French 
servant in livery, who was looking for a place ; the 
[36J 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


37 


other to the young rope-dancer who performed at 
the Orpheus. 

The Frenchman had once been a fine-looking fel- 
low, with a dark complexion and sparkling eyes. 
Now his face was shadowed by a disagreeable 
expression, as his handsome light brown livery was 
disfigured by dirt. His eyes were glassy, and his 
lips had the strange wrinkles which remind one 
of withered fruit. 

One of the sleeves of his coat had ripped open and 
displayed a shirt blackened by cigar-smoke. His 
hat, trimmed with gold lace, rested jauntily over one 
ear, and seemed so insecure that, in spite of the 
crowd, a boy had leaned against the wall of the 
opposite house for half an hour, ready to spring for- 
ward and run away with it as soon as it fell. 

The rope-dancer beside the Frenchman seemed in 
comparison a perfect Adonis; young as a radiant 
cherub, with a flower-like face, and a smile that 
might have suited a young girl ; yet for all that not 
a fibre of his soul was unsullied by corruption. 

“ To hang himself !” said Monsieur Jacques, plain- 
tively, balancing his hat so recklessly that the vaga- 
bond below held out both hands and looked up with 
greedy eyes. “So unexpectedly, too! He comes 
here, asks Herr tide to give him a night’s lodging, 
because he has found two florins and wants a quiet 
sleep ; Ilde gives him the room rented to the little 


38 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


factory girl, who never comes home ; he goes to 
sleep, and the next morning hangs himself. By his 
own suspenders, too ! And out of the window. It 
gave me a shock, Rodolfo ; I shall never get 
over it.” 

Rodolfo, a native of the capital, who, like every 
rope-dancer, has given himself a foreign name, has 
already heard this story eight times within the last 
four days, and now makes his stereotyped answer: 
‘‘Yes, it’s very queer.” So saying, he turns back 
into the room, seizes Monsieur Jacque’s constantly 
emptied and refilled flask, and takes a long pull, 
which reddens his handsome Grecian nose. 

“And now,” continues Monsieur Jacques, who, 
during the last four days, has really become hypo- 
chondriacal and thoughtful, “ why did the stranger 
do this ? That is the strangest part of it. He came 
into my room the evening he spent the night here, 
and asked for a match. I had just come home from 
trying to get a place, and was drinking some brandy, 
so I offered him some, and we fell into conversation. 
He did not sit down, but stood leaning against 
the door. While he was talking, he spilled half the 
contents of the glass, then looked at me as if he had 
been drinking, and said : ‘ I want to try to get one 
more night’s sleep; I’ve had none for a week. In 
cellars underground, between the scaffolds in new 
buildings, in barns, but could succeed nowhere 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


39 


Now I’ll try it once more in a room, as I have 
money enough!’ ‘Are you sick, monsieur?’ I 
asked. He looked at me again as if he were drunk, 
and said: ‘Did you ever kill anybody, comrade?’ 
Now you must know, Rodolfo, I can hear anything 
talked about except murder ; I have weak nerves.” 

“ Yes,” said the handsome, childish-looking youth, 
seizing the flask again. 

“ Well, and this fairly overwhelmed me. ‘ No,’ 
said I. Then the man answered : ‘ That is lucky. 
But even if you had, it wouldn’t matter. Only you 
could never sleep any more.’ You see, Rodolfo, 
that made me shuddfer. I’m none of your saints ; I 
can say I have tried my hand at many things, but 
the look and manner in which the stranger said 
those words sent a chill through me. Perhaps I am 
a worthless fellow ; I ought to work, and 1 — I would 
rather get my money some other way ; but 1 
shouldn’t like to look and feel like that man. Then 
I remembered that once in my young days I heard 
a preacher say, ‘ when a man is idle or steals, he 
may easily be led on to commit a murder.’ It has 
never left my mind. If I could get a place now, I 
really believe 1 would take it. You can’t think how 
1 felt the next day when I saw that man with his 
feet out of the window, hanging by his own sus- 
penders — because he couldn’t sleep. Rodolfo, I 
have made up my mind to take some situation.” 


40 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


Monsieur Jacques spoke as if a thousand gentle- 
men were on their knees imploring him to enter 
their service ; but any one who saw his bleared eyes 
and haggard face would have avoided trusting to 
the good resolutions of this man, who “ had never 
yet killed any one.” 

Rodolfo made a face, for the flask was empty, and 
rose, heavy with the brandy he had drunk. The 
sunset glow had suddenly disappeared ; the room 
was damp, gloomy, dirty ; the larks had vanished ; 
even the sky seemed spotted with black, as if it had 
not been washed for some time, and the air was 
chilly. 

“Are you going already, Rodolfo?” said Mon- 
sieur Jacques, mournfully. 

“ Yes, it is time for the performance to begin,” 
replied Rodolfo, with his girlish laugh. “ Adieu, 
comrade.” 

“ But you won’t leave me alone now, when you 
know I have been afraid to stay in this room after 
dark— ever since that time,” said Monsieur Jacques, 
shedding maudlin tears. 

“ Pshaw !” replied Rodolfo, with a scornful laugh. 
The lad was just seventeen, but he would have 
understood anything sooner than fear, repentance, 
or thought. Ever since he could remember, he had 
spent his nights in the brilliant rooms of hotels, 
heavy with the fragrance of wine, under glittering 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


41 


gas chandeliers, or in gloomy wine cellars, reeking 
with the fumes of liquor ; he had seen and heard 
every species of wrong ; had gazed at young girls 
writhing in the agonies of remorse or intoxicated 
with happiness, but neither remorse nor joy had 
lasted, only a consuming thirst, the thirst for luxury. 
Rodolfo lived in warmth and fragrance, or in the 
streets — according to the ups-and-downs of the sea- 
son. But he must always have a bonbon to crunch, 
a glass of cordial to sip, and a tiny bottle of spring- 
flowers to sprinkle over his vain little person. Each 
fibre of this young soul was thoroughly corrupt. 
There are graves from which, on resurrection morn, 
no ray of light can stream to unite with the uni- 
versal flood of radiance. 

He took his pretty velvet cap from the nail. 

a Come with me, then, old fellow,” said he. Mon- 
sieur Jacques pressed his lace hat more firmly on his 
head, and they passed through two or three streets 
and then reached the Orpheus, where the gas-jets 
were already flaring, and the French singer, Mad- 
emoiselle Louise Philipo, was warbling “Ah! fen 
veux t'y!" and prancing over the stage like a young 
colt. 

Monsieur Jacques remained alone in the streets, 
where the sky was still gray, the gas burned dimly, 
and the people hurried to and fro about their even- 
ing vocations. 


42 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


He had stopped directly before an intelligence 
office, and, leaning against the window, stared 
steadily into vacancy, uncertain where he was, when 
a clerk sitting in the room tapped on the pane 
and beckoned to him. 

Monsieur Jacques slowly straightened himself and 
staggered in. The clerk looked into a large book 
and then handed him a card. “ This time there is 
something for you, Monsieur !” said he. “ A family 
wants a Frenchman, without making any condi- 
tions. You were here yesterday ? The price is two 
florins now, and two more if the place is accepted.” 
Monsieur Jacques was not yet perfectly sober. He 
only knew that he was to pay something, and, with 
a drunkard’s carelessness of money, felt first in one 
vest-pocket, then in another, and at last grasped his 
dirty florins, two of which he threw on the pale 
clerk’s table, and then found himself again in the 
crowded streets. 

It had grown much darker when Monsieur 
Jacques came out ; so dark that the gas lamps on 
the empty bridge cast a bright light on the stone 
balustrade, the water, and the gathering mist. 
Monsieur Jacques had regained his swaggering air. 
He paused under the nearest lamp and read the 
card : the name and address. Then he tore it 
mechanically into five pieces and threw them into 
the river, but they disappeared in the fog before 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


43 


reaching the water. “ It must be nearly eleven 
o’clock,” he muttered, as if roused from a dream. 
“ I am confoundedly late. And Louis was to be 
ready with his crowbar at ten.” 



CHAPTER V. 

The day when a new member of a family circle 
enters a household, and becomes a sharer of its 
daily life, and all the various shades of social inter- 
course, arouses a feeling of anxiety in every class. . 

In the hut, where individual existence is as con- 
fined as in the galleys, as well as in the palace, where 
each separate path winds gracefully over the turf of 
life, without crossing any other. 

Such was the case to-day in Castle Kopa. 

Count Leuthold, with all his aristocratic ease, had 
an air of peculiar importance as he gave Fraulein 
Jenny the most detailed instructions in regard 
to the preparation of Countess Marie’s rooms. 
Count Leuthold was a man who wished to be sure 
that everything in which he was concerned would 
be chivalrously and punctiliously executed. 

Count Oswald, holding a cigar between his white 
teeth, laughed, shrugged his shoulders, thrust his 
hands into his pockets and murmured : “ Taut de 
bruit pour une petite jille de plus ou moins qui sera bein 
L44j 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


45 


case de manger a discretion. Leuthold is happy when 
he can play Don Quixote and patron at once.” 

Little Flora arranged her playthings, and holding 
a large doll dressed in red silk, ran after all the ser- 
vants, and then lip to Fraulein Jenny, saying: 
“ Cousin Marie is eighteen years old. She will be 
very tall, won’t she? And won’t play anymore? 
I wish she had been smaller.’ 

Fraulein Jenny was everywhere. Her slight, 
delicate figure, clad in its gray silk dress, moved 
quietly through the various rooms and corridors. 

“ Have you aired Countess Rinkhausen's curtains, 
bed-quilt, and table-cover ?” she asked the French 
maid, Rose, as she stood on the threshold of the 
rooms assigned to Countess Marie, jingling her 
little bunch of keys. She always directed the 
household affairs, for she had reached the point of 
making herself thus indispensable. 

Rose, Mademoiselle Rose, who was standing at 
one of the windows, turned impatiently. “Why, 

yes, I’ve been told to do so a dozen times already.” 

“ But the work does not seem to be accomplished 

yet, ” said Fraulein Jenny, in her usual gentle man- 
ner, but her eyes had a steely glitter. “ You will be 
good enough to attend to it at once, Mademoiselle 
Rose, or it will grow too late.” 

“ Mademoiselle Rose will be good enough to 
twist your neck at once !” muttered Rose, with an 


46 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


angry light in her large black eyes, as she impa- 
tiently left the window. 

Rose did not like the governess. As a general 
thing every maid hates every governess, because 
the latter stands on the same footing as the family, 
without really being anything more than a servant. 
In this special case, however, Mademoiselle Rose’s 
antipathy to Fraulein Jenny was particularly great, 
because Fraulein Jenny — without having the least 
suspicion of it — had aroused a Platonic affection in 
the heart of the little fair-haired valet , Heinrich ; 
and Mademoiselle Rose would willingly have ruled 
this heart herself. Moreover, she believed the gov- 
erness to be a timid, weak, gentle, feeble person, and, 
therefore, took no trouble to conceal her contempt- 
uous dislike. 

“ What did you say, Mademoiselle ?” asked 
Fraulein Jenny, as Rose passed her with a toss of the 
head. 

“I? Nothing,” said Rose, scornfully ; “perhaps 
people are not allowed to hum or even think here?” 

Now Fraulein Jenny thought Countess Marie’s 
arrival the best and most suitable opportunity to 
make the servants feel her authority. She did not 
yet know Countess Marie, the new relative who 
was to find shelter here; perhaps she might wish to 
meddle with the housekeeping; who could tell? 
All the servants would, of course, take part against 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


47 


the governess, so now or never was the time for 
Fraulein Jenny to let them feel the iron hand under 
the velvet glove. 

The little, frail, delicate creature advanced a step 
toward Rose, so that she prevented the latter's 
progress, and said, with a sweet smile, “ I think, 
Mademoiselle Rose, I have often noticed that you 
do not seem to find it agreeable to execute my 
orders. It grieves and annoys me, for I like to 
have the goodwill of all, even my inferiors. 
Besides, I have a sensitive disposition, and it is 
unpleasant for me to be compelled to make a 
change in the household.” 

The words were uttered pleasantly, courteously, 
even with a smile, but in a perfectly distinct tone. 
Fraulein Jenny had lived in Paris a long time, and 
spoke French wonderfully well. She gave Rose to 
understand that she was mistress here, and had the 
saucy Frenchwoman completely under her control. 
The dainty, smiling, graceful little kitten was sud- 
denly transformed into a tigress, and dared to 
threaten her — her, Rose, with dismissal. For a 
moment Rose’s eyes glittered like two will-o’-the- 
wisps. Something made her fingers twitch, then 
she bent her head, and with one or two muttered 
words, left the room. The words really sounded 
like “on y va /” uttered in the gentlest, most sub- 
missive tone ; but on reaching the other side of the 


48 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


door, which she softly closed, Rose stood still and 
stared at it as if it had been some living creature. 

Fraulein Jenny saw nothing of this. The little 
thing glided quietly through the rooms, smoothing 
a fold here, straightening something there, and then 
left the suite of apartment playing with her keys, 
and smoothing her shining hair. The corridor was 
empty. Darkness was beginning to close in. A 
dreary evening ended a dreary, cloudy day. 

Fraulein Jenny looked into the different rooms as 
she passed along ; paused at one of the large win- 
dows and called to the gardener, who was tying up 
some rose-bushes, that he had forgotten one behind 
the espalier, and then went into her own room and 
dressed for dinner. 

Two or three crows, flying through the darkness, 
uttered shrill notes, announcing the coming of a 
storm. The evening sky had changed from gray to 
black, and a damp wind blew through the trees. 

Count Leuthold was already in the dining-room, 
eating gherkins from a glass dish. Servants were 
moving to and fro, uncovering the various dishes. 
Count Oswald entered, and tossed his cap on a little 
table. “ It is horrible weather; I went out to ride, 
but it’s as damp as a cellar.” 

“ Yes. Countess Marie will have a disagreeable 
journey to-morrow,” said Count Leuthold. 

“Countess — ? Ah! yes. Good Heavens! she 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


49 


will be so glad to come here that she won’t grumble 
about the weather.” 

“ Has the carriage been sent over to the station, 
that it may be there early in the morning, when the 
train arrives?” asked Count Leuthold, turning to 
one of the servants. 

“ Yes ; Fraulein Jenny has already given the 
order,” the man replied. 

Count Leuthold bent his head. “ Fraulein Jenny 
is a pearl,” he cried. “ She thinks of everything. I 
should not know what to do without her.” 

“ How did you manage before she came?” 

“Before Fraulein Jenny came? Why, Frau 
Schmidt was here, and the governess, who was a 
perfect dragon. And Frau Schmidt was always at 
the point of death. Fraulein Jenny is a perfect 
treasure. She smoothes everything. When we are 
all out of temper she puts us in good humor again. 
Don’t you feel her influence, too ?” said the old 
count, with the lazy enthusiasm natural to a fat 
man. As far as his dignity allowed, he really idol- 
ized Fraulein Jenny. 

Count Oswald’s laugh had a peculiar sound. But 
it only lasted a moment, then he nodded assent. “ I 
only wish the blessing would extend itself to this 
room ; I am hungry.” 

“ Good evening !” said Fraulein Jenny at the 


50 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


same moment, as she entered with little Flora. 
“ Am I late ? Mais Flore , qui etait si ebouriffet l” 
****** 

It rained all night long, and rain greeted the dis- 
mal morning, which hardly emerged from the twi- 
light of dawn. The bushes in the park were drip- 
ping with wet, and looked like weeping willows, for 
their branches touched the ground. Tiny streams 
of water had made channels for themselves in the 
avenue, and rushed along like little brooks. A mist 
obscured even the nearest objects. It was about 
nine o’clock in the morning when the carriage sent 
to the station of Dreibriicken returned to the castle. 
A pretty, pale-faced young girl sat within, attired 
in black, with a gray hat, from beneath which fell 
long dark curls. Her eyes were somewhat red- 
dened by the journey, but not her cheeks. The 
rain-water ran off the sides of the carriage in little 
streams, and the whole vehicle glittered with moist- 
ure, while the windows were dimmed as if by frost. 
The horses toiled wearily against the wind, which 
pulled at their manes, and the branches of the trees 
along the avenue brushed the carriage. Countess 
Marie Rinkhausen often gazed through the win- 
dows, after wiping them with her gray gloves. The 
young girl had a resolute little face ; an expression 
of rare energy appeared in the lines between the 
arched eyebrows, but as she looked through the 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


51 


rain at her new home, her clear eyes grew sad, and 
the hand with which she drew the shawl closer 
round her was not quite steady. 

There is no feeling so sad as that of being alone 
in the world, and commencing a new future among 
strangers, and this feeling rests with double weight 
on a girl’s heart, even were it the boldest and proud- 
est. 

At last the carriage rolled through a gate, and 
passed from the soft, silent clay road to the wet, 
creaking sand of the avenue. The rain seemed to 
become even more violent as the horses stopped 
before the terrace. At the door opening on the 
flight of steps stood a smiling young girl, whose fair 
hair was tossed by the wind — Fraulein Jenny. She 
was wrapped in a gray cloak. A servant came 
down the steps with an umbrella. Countess Marie 
alighted, and the footman accompanied her to the 
smiling girl. “ I am Countess Flora’s governess,” 
said Fraulein Jenny, with a courteous, graceful bow, 
as she retreated under the portico ; she had been 
standing on the upper step in the rain; “and here 
is Countess Flora.” 

Then Count Leuthold emerged from the dusky 
hall, and kissed and welcomed his niece with affec- 
tionate, chivalrous courtesy. Count Oswald, too, 
came forward and offered her one hand, keeping 
the other in his coat pocket. For a few minutes 


52 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


there was a confused, incoherent conversation, and 
the poor young stranger, Countess Marie, felt 
chilled even while she smiled. 

Then Fraulein Jenny took her to her own apart- 
ments, that she might dress and make herself com- 
fortable. At the door of the suite Rose appeared, 
and with a low courtesy asked if she could be of any 
assistance to the young lady. Countess Marie, how- 
ever, declined her services for the present, and Rose, 
with a still lower courtesy, retired. Fraulein Jenny 
accompanied Countess Marie to her dressing-room, 
where her trunks were already standing. The 
young girl approached one of them, unlocked it, 
opened the lid, and rose. She had not yet laid 
aside her shawl, and before she did so threw herself 
into the nearest chair, and began to cry. 

Fraulein Jenny opened her eyes like Clarissa Har- 
lowe, and examined the embroidered ends of her 
belt, then timidly looked at Countess Marie’s curls, 
and said : “ It is a pity that your first day here 

should be a rainy one, countess.” 

It was a dreary afternoon. The dull, gray sky 
was made still darker by the veil of cold rain. This 
uniform, wet, gloomy firmament extended over the 
meadows which lay in the rear of the castle. These 
meadows looked like moors. In the distance 
appeared a few crooked trees and some brick-kilns, 
which in the daylight resembled ruins. Across 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


53 


these meadows a broad road ran to the station of 
Dreidriicken. Fraulein Jenny was in Countess 
Marie’s room. She had come to help her unpack 
or arrange her clothes, and while she helped talked 
merrily. Countess Marie felt almost cheerful and 
at home in the pleasant, bright atmosphere Fraulein 
Jenny understood how to create, even amid these 
gloomy surroundings. 

“ Ah ! if the rest of the days are only happy it will 
not matter if the first is rainy,” said Countess Marie, 
putting the last pile of handkerchiefs into a drawer, 
and turning her clear, calm eyes toward the win- 
dow. “I am a perfect stranger to my kind relatives. 
Count Leuthold is a generous guardian, but a guard- 
ian whom I do not know, and the thought makes 
this place seem dreary — far more dreary than the 
weather.” 

“ Oh ! Count Leuthold is the beau ideal of a man,” 
said Fraulein Jenny, smoothing a pile of clothing; 
“ the very beau ideal !” 

“And count Oswald?” 

Fraulein Jenny was silent, and smoothed a second 
pile. 

Countess Marie looked up from the handkerchiefs 
with which she was playing. She thought Fraulein 
Jenny had not heard her, and repeated the question. 

“Count Oswald ? Oh ! of course he is one, too,” 
replied Fraulein Jenny at last, without the slightest 


54 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


shade of embarrassment. “There; now everything 
is in order. You are settled, Countess, except the 
few touches which must be given to rooms by their 
occupant.” 

Countess Marie stood still in the centre of the 
apartment and looked around it. Gloomy as was 
the day, the comfortable furniture, and especially 
the active, graceful figure of the governess gave the 
chamber a home-like air, and she uttered a sigh of 
relief. The beautiful, young orphan, in her black 
dress, and dark floating curls, formed a striking 
contrast to the childish ever smiling, fair-haired 
governess. She went up to the latter and gave her 
a grateful kiss. Countess Marie’s manner was by no 
means caressing, but with all her quiet dignity she 
possessed a cordial warmth which far surpassed any 
gushing, noisy tenderness. “ How kind you are, 
Fraulein Jenny,” said she. “ I almost begin to feel 
at home here. And I was so anxious !” she addod, in 
a low tone. 

Fraulein Jenny smiled very sweetly, and said in 
her clear, ringing voice: “ Indeed! But you must 
not stay here alone till dinner, and get sorrowful, 
Countess. Come down stairs ; perhaps Count Leu- 
thold is in the library with the newspapers, or else 
in the billiard-room. You must make yourself at 
home here, get acquainted with your relatives, and 
not think any more to-day.” She uttered the words 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


55 


in her caressing, coaxing way, holding the beautiful 
girl’s hand tenderly in hers, so that the young stran- 
ger’s heart expanded with an emotion of the deepest 
gratitude. Fraulein Jenny perceived this in her 
eyes, and amid all their gay talk, thought as they 
left the room, “ I have won her.” 

The first apartment on the corridor below was the 
billiard-room, whose door stood open. The dim, 
rain-blurred windows of the corridor, and the dim, 
rain-blurred windows of the billiard-room seemed 
to be lazily ogling each other. As the ladies’ 
dresses rustled along a man appeared on the thres- 
hold — brown-haired Count Oswald. “ How fortun- 
ate !” he exclaimed. “ Cousin, or Fraulein Jenny, 
who will play billiards with me? This horrible 
weather makes me nervous. 1 am almost bored to 
death.” 

With his usual negligent, haughty manner, he 
turned back into the room, whither the two ladies 
followed him. “ 1 must play with somebody. Per- 
haps you have something to do for Flora, Fraulein, 
so you shall be the one, cousin.” And he added in 
in a low tone, “ She must be glad to have something 
to do here.” 

Countess Marie bent her beautiful head, only to 
hold it still higher the next instant. Taking a cue, 
she approached the table, “ Et les regies qu on suit 
icif ' she asked, 


56 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


She had yielded at once, but from this moment a 
feeling of unconquerable hatred tow.ard her cousin 
filled the proud little heart. 

There was something in his imperious tone, his 
insolent, authoritative manner, which, like a strong 
wind, had instantly closed all the doors to her heart. 
When any one enters a new home the first words 
uttered exert a decisive influence over the whole fu- 
ture life, and Countess Marie felt that Count Oswald 
considered himself master of the situation in every 
respect, and from that moment hated him with the 
hatred girlish hearts so often instinctively feel. 
And Countess Marie’s heart was strong in all its 
feelings — silent, strong and resolute. 

“ Les regies ? Mais ce seront les vdtres /” said Count 
Oswald, with the careless gallantry that did not even 
induce him to open his weary eyes as he arranged 
the balls. 

Fraulein Jenny gleefully clapped her little hands. 

“Two new enemies!” she cried. “There is 
nothing so interesting as to see two people play 
against each other for the first time.” 

“Where is Flora?” asked Count Oswald, with 
apparent carelessness, going to the rack and select- 
ing his cue. 

Fraulein Jenny looked at him sharply. “ Flora is 
with her friend, the gate-keeper’s daughter. She 
goes there every afternoon,” she answered, in a 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


57 


clear, metallic voice, though with a bright smile. 
“Come, begin the game. You must know, Count- 
ess, I am a very severe critic ; perhaps because I 
play so badly myself.” 

She went to a little side table, took up her netting 
and posted herself on a high chair, talking gayly, 
all smiles and jests. The game began and Count 
Oswald had the advantage. 

“ My cousin is very easily irritated,” he thought. 
“ And what a musical voice !” He looked at her 
steadily for the first time. Countess Marie was 
bending over her cue, and her dark curls concealed 
the collar of her black dress. The stroke was given, 
and the beautiful brow again appeared. “ It is 
your turn,” she said, coldly. He felt as if roused 
from a dream. “Yes. What an ill-tempered crea- 
ture !” he muttered, relapsing into his former train 
of thought. 

Fraulein Jenny still smiled. 

****** 

Two hours had passed. The rain had ceased, but 
a furious wind had risen, which howled fiercely 
though the dripping trees, and even penetrated the 
thick shrubbery that surrounded the still ponds, and 
stirred the dark, deep waters to their lowest depths. 
Now rainy clouds were sweeping in masses across 
the sky, and the windows of the castle rattled as if 
in terror. Dinner-time was approaching, and some 


58 


THE HONOR OF THE HEAR'!'. 


one tapped gently at the door of Countess Marie’s 
room. The latter had finished her game of billiards 
long before, and was now dressing. In response to 
her “ entrez ,” a pretty brunette face appeared, and 
Rose entered. She spoke in her musical French, 
with her set smile, and in a low, respectful tone. 
She had come to offer her services, and should be 
very glad to have another mistress, for Fraulein 
Jenny was no real mistress but only a servant 
herself, and apparently did not want any sharp 
eyes around her. Rose smiled very significantly. 
“ Yes,” she continued, “ and Countess Flora wears 
her hair over her shoulders, and Fraulein Jenny is 
so fond of her she almost eats her up. So my place 
here was almost a sinecure, but now the noble 
countess has come, and I shall have such a beauti- 
ful, kind mistress.” And Rose, with true French 
enthusiasm, courtesied as if to a queen. 

Spite of the Frenchwoman’s respectful words, 
there was something strangely urgent in her 
manner, an exaggerated humility toward her new 
mistress that affected Countess Marie almost 
unpleasantly. But she could not entirely dispense 
with a maid’s services, and, therefore, accepted 
Rose's as we tolerate a beautiful foreign animal. 

Rose looked over her dinner costumes, dressed 
her beautiful black hair, and made a change in its 
arrangement \vhigh was really more becoming. 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


59 


While thus engaged she talked about a thousand 
different matters, from the owners of the neighbor- 
ing castles down to the gate-keeper, whose naughty 
little girl was always playing with Countess Flora. 
Then she finished her task and made another cour- 
tesy, for the dinner hour had arrived. 

It was Countess Marie’s first dinner at Castle 
Kopa. 

Count Leuthold was in unusually gay spirits. 
Flora had always been his spoiled favorite, and he 
had often kept dinner waiting several minutes when 
she was playing in the garden. To-day Countess 
Marie took the seat on the other side, and felt 
cheered by the cheerful mood of her guardian and 
uncle, as a ray of sunlight brightens a cloudy spring 
day. Fraulein Jenny, too, was far more talkative 
than usual, but her gayety and wit were always kept 
subordinate to the mirth of others, and never 
asserted themselves. The lamp over the table 
burned dimly. It did not know whether to flare up 
or expire. The wind was to blame. Sometimes a 
ray flashed unexpectedly from a decanter, and then 
all the glass seemed dull. Once Count Oswald took 
a dish out of the servant’s hand, saying, “ You are 
terribly awkward.” The weather really appeared 
to affect his nerves, for he was about to do the same 
thing a second time, but recollected himself and 


60 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


turned to the governess: “Your favorite dish, 
Fraulein.” 

Fraulein Jenny smiled and thanked him. 

“ But, perhaps — ” she said, and, withdrawing her 
hand, looked at Countess Marie. 

Count Oswald made an indescribable gesture, and 
murmuring something in French, passed the dish to 
his cousin. She thanked him with a queenly bend 
of the head and continued her conversation with 
Count Leuthold about the various events of her 
journey. “ The creature is insufferably proud !” 
thought Count Oswald, looking at her with cold 
anger. 

An hour afterward Count Oswald came from the 
library, where he had been looking for a book, into 
his own room, and found on his writing-desk a 
small, plain, by no means elegant looking letter. 

“ A little boy brought it, who said he came from 
the city.’’ 

Count Oswald nodded. Then he sat down at his 
table and opened “ Gil Bias.” But he could not 
read long, the wind moaned so loudly at the win- 
dow, and he sat still for a time gazing at the book, 
the most bored, listless, and indifferent of ex-officers. 
What scenes were creeping slowly over the pages 
of the unread book, or what dreams were howling 
at the window! Old, long past scenes, and van- 
ished tones, that sought to press intrusively into his 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


61 


present life, or new chaotic images which had 
entered his mind to-day for the first time ? 

He read no more, but passed his hand over the 
book as if to efface a dream, and in so doing brushed 
the forgotten letter. It was a very ordinary epistle, 
addressed in the usual way, and written on plain 
paper. He took it, broke the seal, and glanced over 
the contents : 

“ I must speak to you in my own room once more 
— my room at tide’s. Come to the city : I will 
name the day. “Lina.” 

Count Oswald folded the letter; the lamp now 
burned so steadily that it no longer cast any change- 
ful play of light and shadows on his wearied face. 
His eyes, as usual, were half closed ; perhaps from 
fatigue; but the drooping lids might also conceal 
some other feeling. 

He took the note and thoughtfully tore it into 
five, ten small pieces, which he did not drop on the 
floor, but placed carefully in his pocket-book. 

The wind still continued to howl, perhaps without 
knowing why itself, shook the roofs, tossed the 
branches, moaning or shrieking like a maniac in the 
most incomprehensible, causeless manner. Or did 
it have a purpose? Is nature only a voice that 
speaks a language incomprehensible to us, a voice 
that would fain warn or counsel, and is only intelli- 


62 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


gible to the lifeless objects around us to which it 
communicates its own horror ? Did the shadow of 
a coming fate fall more darkly on some life-path 
that stormy evening? No. No shadow from with- 
out entered the castle. The windows were brightly 
lighted, even those of the coachman, who often sat 
up reading chivalric romances until far into the 
night. The gloomy shadows crouched around the 
glittering building like wailing, fettered slaves, and 
did not penetrate to the quiet room of the pretty, 
fair-haired young governess. Fraulein Jenny sat at 
the closed window, with her head resting on her 
hand, and had either fallen asleep or was listening 
to the raging of the storm. Her eyes were fixed 
on the carpet, whose arabesques they steadily fol- 
lowed, and the gaze was steady and firm, like a 
warder watching his prisoners. 



CHAPTER VI. 

The next day was bright and clear ; the wind had 
died away, the torn clouds permitted the sunlight 
to pass through them, the rain had collected in 
large puddles in the park, fields, and avenues ; often- 
times a solitary, belated gust of wind swept 
through the trees, like a marauder who had been left 
behind and was wildly seeking the comrades no 
longer to be found in this sudden silence and new- 
born brightness. 

The inhabitants of the castle could stroll through 
the park again. Four light dresses fluttered amid 
the green foliage of the shrubbery. Little Flora 
was playing with the gate-keeper’s daughter, and 
the flounces and floating plumes darted about like 
birds amid the shouts of the merry companions. 

The dresses worn by Countess Marie and Fraulein 
Jenny flitted regularly to and fro along the avenue, 
as the two ladies walked quietly up and down. 

“ I like such days as this,” said Fraulein Jenny. 
“ It seems as if one had returned home after a long 

[63] 


64 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


journey,” and she plucked two leaves from a jasmine 
bush, which glittered after the rain as if it had been 
varnished. 

“ To feel that, one must feel at home somewhere,” 
said Countess Marie, with a grave, thoughtful face, 
while her e} T es wandered from one tree-top to 
another. 

“ And do you not yet feel at home here, Countess ?” 
said Fraulein Jenny, smiling sweetly, while her 
light hair fluttered in a passing breeze. “ Ah ! it 
will be different in a day or two. They all love you 
so much, and it is so beautiful here. But, of course, 
when any one has left a home and friends — it is very 
sad. Was Rinkhaus beautiful ?” 

“Beautiful?” said Countess Marie, clasping her 
hands as she walked on. “ It was my home. I was 
born there. When my father died the house was 
already heavily mortgaged, but mamma would not 
leave it. I was then a mere child. Ever since that 
time, mamma always wore black and dressed me in 
dark colors. We rarely saw any company for we 
had only a small allowance from my uncle, the head 
of the family. Before the house was a little garden 
which papa had arranged himself. Papa had for- 
merly been a colonel, and still wore his long mous- 
tache and his scar. And he loved flowers. They 
say all ex-soldiers do.” 

“Yes, that is so strange, isn’t it?” replied Frau- 



he was sitting on the floor. — See Page 3 07 










THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


65 


lein Jenny, tearing off two new leaves, for the first 
ones were already destroyed. 

“ Mamma kept only two servants, a gardener and 
the cook. We never had a carriage, because the 
village church was so near. Mamma could not for- 
get papa. She never had any rest, and yet was 
always so kind to me and never whimsical ! From 
the window of my room I could look directly over 
to the village. I had a great many toys — a whole 
room full — and I played with them until one day 1 
suddenly found I had grown too large, and felt 
ashamed of it. Meantime mamma had taught me 
everything she knew : to speak various foreign 
languages and play on the piano. She always said, 
‘ Perhaps some day you will be obliged to take care 
of yourself !’ But she was proud, and made me so 
proud that 1 — ” 

Countess Marie suddenly paused, cast a side 
glance at Fraulein Jenny, and blushed. 

Fraulein Jenny smiled. “Oh! yes/’ said she. 
“ That you could not bear the thought of serving, of 
being dependent, even if it were in the most respon- 
sible position. I can understand it ; I understand 
the feeling an ancient name must give.” 

Countess Marie thanked her with an eloquent 
glance. “ No, I did not mean exactly that, but — ” 

“ But it is so. Why, that is perfectly natural. 
You will never be a dependent, however, my sweet, 


66 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


beautiful countess. You will soon be entirely at 
home here ; as much at home as in your old house. ” 

“ Only I must always remain an orphan,” said 
Countess Marie, as if to herself, while her eyes fell. 
Then she looked up again. “ And you, you have 
been here a long time, Fraulein?” she said. 

“ I ? Oh ! I have been in the family nine months, 
and Count Leuthold is kind enough to think me 
useful. At first I only took charge of Countess 
Flora, but the old housekeeper died and I attended 
to the housekeeping. Count Leuthold found that 
matters went on very well, so — ” 

“ So you have become a Providence to us all !” 
said Countess Marie, gratefully. “ I have been 
here just two days, but I could not imagine the 
great house without you. It is such a strange 
family. The old count, then Count Oswald, who 
seems to be just passing through like a leaf whirled 
along by the wind; a little girl, and no matron.” 

‘‘Yes, and I am so comfortable here, so grateful 
to the count and all the others, so happy. I 
entered the family in Brussels, in answer to an 
advertisement.” 

“ And before that ?” 

Fraulein Jenny, without the least hesitation, con- 
tinued, in an almost monotonous tone : “ Before 
that I was in Paris, with a family named Hardingen, 


THE HONOR OE THE HEART. 


67 


and before that with Baroness Gaussing, in Geneva. 
I am from Switzerland, Countess.” 

“Pray, drop my title, dear Jenny; call me by 
my Christian name, will you not ?” 

Jenny blushed scarlet. “ Oh !” 

“ You are still so young, and yet have been 
obliged to seek so many different homes,’’ said 
Countess Marie, sadly, pressing the governess’ hand 
with eager sympathy. 

Fraulein Jenny laughed. “Ah! if one only has 
a cheerful disposition, everything is endurable, and 
the world — even friendly. I used to have many a 
headache, but was forced to get accustomed even 
to that.” She threw a whole shower of leaves on 
the ground, and turned away. “ Mais,mille pardons, 
comtesse, il faudrait voir sb Flora ne s' tchauffe pas trop. 
And here is Count Oswald.” 

Countess Marie hasily overtook her. “ I — I will 
go with you,” said she. 

The two girls went back toward the meadow. 
Count Oswald did not quicken his steps, but at last 
overtook them and was obliged to say something. 
“ Isn’t it rather damp and windy to walk in the 
open air so long ?” he said, saluting them in his 
usual indolent manner. 

“ But it is such a lovely day,” replied the gover- 
ness, half pouting. 

It was indeed, notwithstanding the dampness of 


68 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


the air, a lovely day. Glittering clouds floated 
athwart the sun, and gave changeful lights and 
shadows. 

“It is such a lovely day !” said Fraulein Jenny, 
and added : “ I’ll venture to say, Herr Count, your 
anxiety proceeds solely from selfishness; you want 
to play billiards again.” 

“ Indeed !” replied Count Oswald, lazily. 

" But if we left the park, it would be no proof 
that we should go into the fbilliard-room,” said 
Countess Marie in her qniet, haughty manner. 
“ However, I really find the air — refreshing as it is 
— somewhat cool, and have left my shawl upstairs.” 
She bent her head and turned away. 

“ You wanted to get your shawl; I can surely do 
that.” 

“ No, I intend to remain upstairs,” said Countess 
Marie over her shoulder. 

“ She will accept no service,” muttered Count 
Oswald, angrily. 

As Countess Marie, in her fluttering gray dress, 
walked forward along the avenue, with her heavy 
black curls floating over her shoulders, and her 
whole figure bathed in the golden sunlight, the 
vision flashed like a gleam of lightning before the 
eyes of the indolent, frivolous, blase young man. 
He suddenly became aware that he loved this girl. 
He had already often done what the French call 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


69 


“ make love,” a term they apply alike to a light flir- 
tation and an absorbing passion, but had never yet 
felt real love — the love without cause or beginning. 
The emotion awoke in his heart for the first time, 
and it seemed as if he heard a low, distinct voice 
speaking in the depths of his own soul. This was 
no wild, sudden feeling. He knew it had been 
there from the first moment of his existence, and 
would remain until the last. He was not even 
aware how he loved her. He still thought the new 
emotion would find expression as it had already 
done so often. He thought that she was beautiful, 
and some day he would try to kiss her — as a cousin. 
He would lake advantage of some opportunity 
when he was bidding her farewell or returning 
home. He looked after the retreating figure with 
a softened expression, and his hand rested on the 
trunk of the nearest tree. 

Just at that moment he heard a woman’s voice 
beside him. Fraulein Jenny had cautioned little 
Flora to be more gentle in her play., and now passed 
Count Oswald to follow the young countess to the 
castle. She did not pause, but, smiling sweetly said, 
with sparkling eyes, while the sunlight cast golden 
reflections on her shining hair, as she lightly raised 
her dress to keep it from brushing the turf : “Count- 
ess Marie is no friend of yours, Herr Count. You 
are too dry and sarcastic ; you ought to be more 


TO 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


cordial and natural. Your conduct toward her is 
that of a master, or — a lover.” 

She had already passed him, when Count Oswald 
was roused from his reverie as if by an echo of the 
low, sharply uttered words. They were strange 
remarks, by no means proper for a governess to use 
to her employer ; but Fraulein Jenny was a general 
favorite and had all sorts of whimsical, original 

ideas in her little head. 

* * * * 

As Count Oswald walked further away from the 
castle, with the wind blowing in his face, he took 
the slender willow branch with which he had been 
lashing the wet boughs, and in his rage broke it into 
ten or twenty little pieces, as he had torn the letter 
the day before. And he kept the pieces, rolling 
them in his restless hands, until he emerged from 
the shrubbery on the banks of a still lake, which 
to-day mirrored the bright sun and golden-brown 
clouds. He threw the torn letter — which he took 
from his pocket — and the broken wand into the 
water, on whose smooth surface they formed little 
circles whose constant widening he dreamily 
watched. He had a firm, manly, wonderfully hand- 
some face and the distant Lina, who had written the 
letter in the city, as well as the person of whom he 
had been thinking when he broke the branch, were 
as completely forgotten as these worthless things. 



CHAPTER VII. 

The following day Count Leuthold was again 
radiant with importance, for a new wall was to be 
added to the stables in the courtyard. This digni- 
fied, intelligent aristocrat, who filled his position in 
the councils of his country with the greatest wis- 
dom, possessed a weakness common to many digni- 
fied, intellectual, and distinguished personages. He 
was as important as any ordinary plebeian if even a 
stable belonging to the castle was to be renovated, 
and could be seen standing among the workmen for 
hours, giving various unsuitable orders, to the 
despair of the builder, and proposing ridiculous 
changes, to the bewilderment of the laborers. He 
wandered restlessly about, talked in a very loud 
tone, related at the breakfast-table everything he 
had heard about the work early in the morning, 
asked everybody for an opinion without waiting for 
an answer, and even neglected his dress and allowed 
spots of mortar to remain on his black coat. This 
was the case to-day. Ever since early morning he 
had made himself as useless and also as annoying 

[7i] 


72 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


and important as possible at the spot where the 
building was going on. At lunch he left the food 
and wine almost untouched, and did nothing but 
talk. Fraulein Jenny understood his mood, and 
charmed him by artless, ignorant remarks about 
architecture, which he could laugh at and correct. 
Countess Marie at first listened courteously and 
almost eagerly, but soon relapsed unto hopeless 
confusion of mind. Count Oswald quietly eat his 
luncheon, occasionally casting a hasty glance across 
the table. Little Flora, in her stiffly starched dress 
was playing with her doll on the balcony. 

Count Leuthold soon rose from the table ; he must 
look after “ the men.” 

Fraulein Jenny went to hear little Flora say her 
lesson. As she led the child away, she asked ami- 
ably : “ You will be lonely, countess. Won’t you 

go and look at the building ?” 

Countess Marie had risen, while Count Oswald 
was still devouring a partridge like a hungry ogre. 

“ I will practice a little,” she said. And the radi- 
ant sunlight followed the retreating figures to the 
door of the corridor, where they vanished. 

****** 

In the school-room, on the second story, where 
maps and books lay scattered on the table, Fraulein 
Jenny opened Countess Flora’s books, while that 
young lady obstinately twisted some of her long 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


73 


hair around her fingers, standing first on one foot 
and then on the other. 

“We begin Central Asia to-day,” said Fraulein 
Jenny, with her bright, pleasant manner, as she 
crossed the room, opened the window, and stood 
there till the first notes of the piano in the great 
drawing-room echoed on the air. Then she re- 
turned to the table, where Countess Flora, like an 
elegantly dressed augur, sat twisting her feet impa- 
tiently, and the wind played with the green bows 
on her dress. 

Down in the courtyard Count Leuthold was try- 
ing to convince the desperate master-builder that 
the ceil-de bceuf form was much more suitable for 
stable windows than a circular one. 

“ If Jenny were only here I” he at last exclaimed, 
angrily. “ She would agree with me. She has 
such a quick eye to see the merits of everything !” 

Suddenly, in the midst of Countess Marie’s play- 
ing, a firm voice said from the doorway : “You like 
classical music, cousin ?” 

Count Oswald was standing on the threshold, 
with his cap pushed a little aside, and his sparkling 
eyes fixed steadily on the beautiful picture before 
hi m — the young girl dressed in black, with the dark 
curls sweeping over the keys, while her small hands 
drew forth exquisite harmonies. He already knew 


74 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


that he loved her — madly. He must show his feel- 
ings. 

She answered without making any pause in her 
playing, as if the interruption annoyed her. 

He came nearer and spoke again. It vexed her 
to have any one talk while she was playing. He 
went behind her chair, bent over her, looked at the 
notes, and then tried to turn the page. “ Thanks, 
cousin,” said she. “ It disturbs me to have any one 
turn the page ; I often repeat whole passages, omit 
several bars — ” 

“ Pardon !” he replied, with mock gallantry, lifted 
one of her curls, and gently kissed the soft, per- 
fumed tress. It was nothing, only a cousinly jest. 
But Countess Marie instantly stopped playing, and 
turned with an eager, breathless, menacing face. 
She did not look at him, but resumed her piece, 
played one or two more bars, and brought it to an 
abrupt close ; then rose from her seat, closed the 
book, laid it aside, and, with a slight bend of the 
head, walked toward the door. 

“ Are you not going to play any more ?” said the 
count, blushing like a school-boy, as he followed 
her. “ Perhaps you don’t like to have any one listen 
to you ?” 

She turned her face toward him. The same cold, 
proud, defiant expression rested upon it. He had 
insulted her ; she hated him inexpressibty. “ Per- 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART 


75 


haps so !” she said curtly, and with another regal 
bend of the head left the room. 

u The little coquette !” muttered the count between 
bis teeth, giving his handsome mustache a fierce 
pull, while the color deepened in his face. 

***** 

Countess Flora, spite of her impatient whimpering, 
had said her lesson very well, for she hoped in this 
way to get back to her doll more quickly, but for 
several minutes Fraulein Jenny had not heard her. 
She was restless, for she was listening to the music 
below, which had twice been interrupted by a man’s 
voice. 

The young governess now rose and hastily 
approached the window. Countess Flora, who was 
in the middle of a province in East India, looked 
after her in astonishment. 

“ How well Countess Marie plays !” said Fraulein 
Jenny, whose face was deeply flushed. “We wont 
have any more geography to-day. Come down 
stairs. You can profit by it, Countess Flora.” 

But before they reached the door of the room the 

music had ceased. 

***** 

The following morning Fraulein Jenny was stand- 
ing in one of the large rooms that opened upon the 
corridor, busied in arranging a heap of roses in two 
vases. The gardener, who was an adept in the 


76 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


cultivation of plants, but had no idea of arranging 
them, always sent the flowers up in a large bundle. 

The door of the room stood open. Fraulein 
Jenny was searching impatiently for the roses, 
which were almost hidden under a mass of leaves. 
She had so many little household affairs to direct 
this morning. And none of the servants passed 
through the corridor. She was always gentle, even 
when alone, but several times an almost startling 
expression of vexation flitted over her face. 

Now she heard footsteps and the rustle of a dress. 
Rose was just passing. Fraulein Jenny’s hands 
were still full of flowers. She called, “ Mademoi- 
selle !” 

Rose paused a moment. She was carrying some 
folded underclothes over her arm. “ Plait il?" she 
asked, with a very amiable face. 

“ Come here a moment and arrange these bou- 
quets ; I have no time to do so,” said Fraulein 
Jenny, gently. 

A singular expression flitted over Rose’s face, as 
if she thought the request ridiculous. “Nor I, 
either,” she said, moving a step forward. 

Fraulein Jenny instantly threw down her flowers, 
and walked quickly to the door. Her manner 
was still as gentle as usual, but she looked rather 
warm. “ No time !” said she. “ Really ?’’ 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 77 

“ Really. I have something to do for the count- 
ess. She told me.” 

“This is work which will employ half the day,” 
said Fraulein Jenny, still more gently, looking at the 
rows of fluting, “so five minutes’ delay will do no 
harm. You can arrange the flowers in a few 
minutes. So you will be kind enough to make the 
bouquets; I leave them in your charge, Mad- 
emoiselle.” The governess’ sweet voice seemed to 
have a steely sound. 

Rose smiled and courtesied, a courtesy so 
extremely low that it seemed like mockery. “ I am 
sorry. But the countess did not give me any per- 
mission to delay, and, unfortunately, her orders 
must be obeyed first. 1 am sorry.” 

After these words the two women looked at each 
other in almost breathless silence. The governess’ 
hands were clenched amid the folds of her white 
dress, as the Frenchwoman’s clasped each other 
under the folded linen. They seemed to be measur- 
ing the distance between them. 

No hatred compares with the bitter, burning feel- 
ing that sometimes arises between two dependent 
women. At that moment either would have 
crushed or strangled the other without the slightest 
hesitation. Rose had always hated the gentle gover- 
ness, had openly shown it, and been humiliated and 1 
despised by her. Now, however, that Countess 


78 


THE HONOR OP THE HEART* 


Marie was in the house, she had a weapon, and she 
uttered a sigh of relief that she could at last bid 
defiance, legitimate defiance, to the governess. 

For one moment Fraulein Jenny’s face wore a 
cat-like expression, such as no one had ever seen 
before, then she slowly regained her usual com- 
posure, though her voice was entirely changed, 
harsh and unnatural. “ You will arrange these 
bouquets instantly, Mademoiselle, before you do 
any other work, or you will leave this house to-mor- 
row.” 

“ Will I ? Really?” 

“ You will. Rely upon it.” Fraulein Jenny had 
become perfectly calm again, and did not even wait 
for Rose’s reply, but passed her and went down the 
corridor. She seemed to think it perfectly natural 
that Rose would obey. Surely Fraulein Jenny 
must have a firmer footfold in the house than all — 

Rose trembled a few seconds as if she had 
received an electric shock, and followed the gover- 
ness four or five steps, but she had already disap- 
peared up the staircase. 

Rose sighed heavily, and stood still ; then burst 
into a short laugh. She had changed her mind. 
The raven hair curled more defiantly than ever 
around her pretty brunette face. She actually went 
^back into the room where the flowers were, put the 
underclothes down on a chair, approached the table, 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


79 


took up the roses, and began to arrange them in 
bouquets, muttering meantime the strangest words. 
It seemed as if she were crunching bon-bons. 

“ So. And I can do nothing against you? I am 
to leave the house, and can do nothing against you ? 
Ah ! And I am not to stay here and trample you 
under my feet, you sweet, silver, golden, adored 
canaille ?” The last word was uttered with a most 
inimitable twist of the tongue. “ Oh ! perhaps I 
don’t know that you are in love, blindly in love 
with a certain Count Oswald? Oh! no. And 
perhaps I didn’t see you, late one dark evening, go 
down into the garden, look up at his window, and 
say aloud, ‘ Remember!’ And he came and looked 
out, and you went on as if you were merely taking 
a walk? I don’t know all this. Oh ! no! of course 
not. And I shall never find out anything more ? 
I shall never watch you night after night, day after 
day, till I can spit in your face, you dear, sweet, 
golden — ” And Rose ended the sentence with a 
word Parisian cafe singers use when they speak of 
some fortunate rival. 

Rose had now put two exquisite bouquets in the 
vases, and was perfectly calm and amiable again. 
So amiable that five minutes after, still holding the 
underclothes over her arm, she rapped at the door 
of the governess’ room, and in response to her 
come in,” put first her head, and then her whole 


80 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


graceful figure into the apartment, saying : “ I have 

arranged the flowers, Fraulein, and came to tell you, 
and ask whether I shall carry them into the large 
drawing-room.” 

Fraulein Jenny, who was just dressing to receive 
some guests expected at the castle that evening, 
turned with an expression of surprise, in which was 
blended a shade of some other feeling. “ It is not 
necessary, I thank you.” 

“ Can I be of any assistance in your toilette ?” 
continued Rose. 

“ I — thank — ” 

“ And — and — I would like to ask your pardon, if 
I spoke a little rudely. 1 am so quick-tempered, 
Fraulein. People must have patience with me.” 
As she uttered these words, Rose moved a step 
nearer, smiled, pulled timidly at her lace bows, and 
then, with a courtesy, left the room. 

Fraulein Jenny stood motionless before her ward- 
robe, holding a light silk dress over her arm, and 
looking intently toward the door through which 
Rose had disappeared. The expression in her face 
had now became distinct. It was anxiety, real 
anxiety. 

***** * 

That evening guests arrived at the castle. Old 
Count Krok, the owner of a neighboring estate, on 
his way to Vienna with his four daughters, had 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


81 


stopped at Kopa, according to a time-honored 
custom, to smoke a cigar with his old college friend, 
Leuthold. 

Conversation at the supper-table had been very 
animated, as it always was whenever Count Krok 
appeared ; he repeated the same stories, begin- 
ning at the university and continuing to the time of 
his wedding. Count Leuthold laughed in the same 
places, and the four young ladies, of whom the eld- 
est was thirty-four, and the youngest twenty-eight 
years old, talked to their new friend, Countess 
Marie, whom they had hated from the first moment 
they saw her. Count Oswald amused himself with 
the grimaces of the four sallow blondes, and often 
made some careless remark which greatly enraged 
them. Countess Flora, who had her dinner in her 
own room when strangers were present, was brought 
in after dessert by her governess, and welcomed 
with shrieks of delight. 

Then a game of whist was arranged, in which 
Count Leuthold and Count Krok played against the 
Countesses Malva and Orsa. Count Oswald was an 
execrable whist player. Meantime, the rest of the 
party went to the piano, and performed some of the 
long, dreary pieces, usually given when two families 
spend an evening together. Several new pieces 
were discussed, and then the conversation turned 
upon Scholhoff and Patti. The Countesses Norta 


82 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


and Krappi Krok were thoroughly posted on this 
subject by the musical papers. 

It may be mentioned here that the custom so 
prevalent among the aristocracy, of mangling ladies’ 
Christian names and making them unrecognizable, 
had been carried to the greatest extreme in the 
Krok family. No one had ever discovered— for 
even the Almanach de Gotha did not betray the 
secret — from what baptismal names Malva, Orsa, 
Norta, and Krappi had originated, though an old 
governess who had been present when the four 
countesses were christened, declared on her death- 
bed that Malva meant Melaine ; Orsa, Ursula; 
Norta, Rosina ; and Krappi, Charlotte.” 

Count Oswald maliciously praised the countesses’ 
music, and then said to Countess Marie : “ Play the 
* Ombra odorata ’ you played yesterday, will you ?” 

The two countesses uttered a shriek of delight, 
and kissed Countess Marie, while the latter sat down 
and with a defiant frown, commenced the piece. It 
seemed as if some unendurable burden were press- 
ing her to the ground, as if some constraint were 
exerted over her, and she was forced to play only 
for Count Oswald, who stood leaning over her chair 
listening, and often exclaiming in careless, arrogant 
fashion, “ Superb.” She hated his face, which she 
knew was behind her, the tone of his voice ; she felt 
his hand resting near her shoulder as she would 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


83 


have felt the presence of a toad, and her heart 
swelled with defiance and anger. At last the piece 
came to an end, but she did not look up. She was 
trembling as if with some feverish chill. 

The two countesses, full of envy, uttered exclam- 
ations of delight, and with clasped hands and kisses 
begged for a longer piece or an improvisation, prob- 
ably, in the hope of detecting some false notes. 

“Yes, an improvisation!” said Count Oswald. 
“ Do you improvise, cousin ?” 

Countess Marie did not look at him, but with 
compressed lips laid her hands lightly on the keys. 
Count Oswald leaned over the back of her chair 
again. 

“ Oswald !” cried Countess Flora, from the sofa, 
where Fraulein Jenny had been tying her hair. 

Count Oswald cast a side glance at her, but did 
not move. The governess now rose and softly 
approached the piano. 

“ Count Oswald !” called Flora again. Fraulein 
Jenny turned, and with a smile laid her finger on 
her lips to command silence. 

Count Oswald muttered something, and looked 
angrily at the child, but went toward the sofa on 
tip-toe to hush the little torment. “ Will you be 
quiet?” he said, angrily. “ Why did you call me ? 
What do you want ?” 

Countess Flora looked at him very importantly. 


84 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


“ Nothing. Only Fraulein Jenny said it disturbed 
people to lean over them when they were playing. 
She knew that by experience, and I ought to tell 
you.” 

“ It sounds as if she were playing tears,” said 
Countess Krappi softly, in an ecstasy of pretended 
delight. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Herr Ilde’s old house in the dingy street always 
looked shame-faced in the beautiful summer 
weather. It appeared to crouch away from the blue 
sky, as a dirty old drunkard shrinks from a gentle- 
man. The sunlight always made it seem to blush 
with angry embarrassment, for the brilliant rays 
revealed all its cracks, stains, leaks, and ridges. 
Herr Ilde’s house was certainly not built for sum- 
mer, only for spring, when the snow melted and 
dripped from its sloping roof, for autumn, with its 
damp, penetrating mist, and for winter. And sum- 
mer was already drawing to a close. A chilly fog 
was gradually creeping over the sky, making it 
a dingy white ; a fog which clung to the gutters of 
the roof, and gnawed at them like some disease. 

And this damp mist concealed a hundred forms of 
loathsome illness, which, when some dry, unhealthy, 
warm days came, suddenly crept out, fell without 
warning on the nearest houses, and oozed like mire 

[ 85 ] 


86 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


through roofs and ceilings, into the unhealthy, 
foul-smelling rooms. 

In this dark, gloomy autumn weather the old house 
seemed like an asthmatic, wrinkled hypocrite, who 
cowers shivering] in the cool breeze, and is secretly 
consumed by some poisonous malady. 

The house had had so many strange inmates; 
young and old, sick and healthy. Many had left it 
to end their days in the hospital, many to die on the 
highway, in the wet and cold of winter, and many 
to dance in the air on the gallows. Yet new vaga- 
bonds had always come to fill the empty rooms, and 
the odor of disease and corruption was constantly 
renewed. The people who lived in the house were 
really public characters, yet none of them ever made 
any disturbance. The exterior and interior of the 
house always remained the same, and the old and 
new occupants bore so close a resemblance to each 
other in crime, mystery, and corruption, that they 
might have passed for the same. The unpainted, 
dirty walls, dripping with moisture, were so har- 
dened to the constant coming and going, the repul- 
sive scenes of crime, desperation, and despair, so 
steeled against drunkenness, conspiracies, blasphe- 
mies, false oaths, or lonely death-beds, that they 
seemed fairly stifled under their load of green slime 
and gray moisture. And in one of the rooms of the 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


87 


old house, during the last few days, something else 
vanished. It was not much. Only a face. 

During these days the walls of the room where 
lay the handsome, young, and apparently innocent 
rope-dancer from the Orpheus, had heard curses, 
shrieks, groans, and at last low, bitter weeping. A 
lonely boy had lain there, visited and nursed only 
by the French valet who was looking for a place. 

The boyish Adonis, Rodolfo, had “somewhere” 
imbibed the insidious, terrible disease the common 
people call the “ fever.” A fever which either kills 
or mars the face beyond recognition. For weeks, 
with bloated features, parched lips, and wandering 
mind, he had tossed upon his couch, a prey to deliri- 
ous fancies. So long as he retained his senses, he 
had implored the Frenchman not to take him to the 
hospital. “ They would ill me there.” 

He had also mentioned two or three addresses, and 
on leaving the news of Rodolfo’s sickness at these 
houses, money had been sent to Monsieur Jacques, 
who waited at the door. Once or twice the vaga- 
bond valet had called in the crazy old quack who 
lived in the next house, and w r as trying to discover 
the secret of converting old bones into pearls. At 
last the disease released its victim, but the sufferer 
could not walk, could not move, and his face was 
marred, disfigured forever. From his boyhood 
Rodolfo had been a handsome, smiling butterfly, 


.88 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


radiant in his white silk tights and in his pink or 
blue clouds of muslin, which floated caressingly 
around his classic figure. Ever since he could 
remember, he had lived only in the glare of the gas- 
lights. He had lived in the glare of the gaslights, 
and during the day crept like a moth into his dirty 
hole and slept till evening. From his earliest child- 
hood he had been roused at night-fall, dressed, rouged , 
and then sent to play with death on the trapeze. 
And he had played gracefully. The boy had already 
learned the pitiful art of coquetry. He smiled like 
a negro in the market-place to show his teeth, and 
bowed like a beautiful doll. He had had his ups 
and downs in life. When a child he had often been 
petted and kissed by aristocratic countesses or idle 
rich men, who had “ taken a desperate fancy” to the 
little rope-dancer. Afterward he had been only 
too easily induced to share the orgies of the men 
who always had a few coppers to spare for drink, 
and then in the early dawn invariably robbed his 
intoxicated patrons, to whom he had played the 
part of a viper. 

And now the terrible disease called by the Ger- 
man people the “ fever ” had kept him senseless for 
weeks, until at last the old quack said : “ The 
danger is over ; now you can let me alone.” 

The danger had passed, but want was close at 
hand. The rope-dancer had recovered his senses 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


89 


and ceased to rave, but was still too weak to move. 
When the French valet returned in the morning 
from “ looking for a place,” he always sat down 
beside the lad’s bed, said a few words of rough but 
well-meant consolation, told him he would soon be 
strong again, and then took a pull at his flask. “ I 
would give you a drink, too, but it isn’t safe yet.” 

The dim gray light of dawn crept slowly over the 
roofs. 

“ Have I been sick long?” asked Rodolfo. 

“ Six weeks ! But perhaps you will get out in a 
few days. What will you do then ?” 

“ Why, go on the trapeze !” said Rodolfo, in his 
feeble voice, resting his head on his folded arms, 
which were covered with torn shirt-sleeves, reeking 
with the contagion of disease. 

Monsieur Jacques took a sip of brandy and raised 
his black eyebows. “ Him, poor lad !” he muttered. 
“Rope-dancing! With that face!” But he did 
not say it aloud, only passed his hand gently over 
the sick boy’s arm, and said : “You ought to rest a 
few months, Rodolfo ; have you no relatives any- 
where ?” 

“ None,” said Rodolfo, sulkily, hiding his face on 
his pillow. 

“ Or isn’t there any gentleman, any patron, who 
would give you a little money — till you were 
entirely cured ?” 


90 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


“ The beasts !” muttered Rodolfo, bitterly. “ Not 
one. But I don’t want it. Surely I can work — on 
the rope — soon. I am much better.” 

“Much better!” said Monsieur Jacques, consol- 
ingly at the thick, swollen nose, scarred cheeks, 
wrinkled lips and bleared eyes of the poor boy, who 
could never be handsome again. He had no more 
brandy in his flask, and as he gazed and reflected, 
fell asleep. 

When the red autumn sun had climbed slowly 
and wearily over a sea of roofs to the window of the 
room, it shone brightly upon the sleeping drunkard 
and thief, and the sleepless rope-dancer, who counted 
from one to a hundred, and from one hundred to 
two hundred, then thought of a little song an old 
ticket-seller in a little circus — his mother — had 
taught him, about a maiden betrothed to a soldier 
who did not return from the war, and at last re- 
membered how his patron, uncle, and guardian used 
to swear, before he reached the final stage of intoxi- 
cation and lay motionless. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Castle Kopa has become very lonely, for its in- 
mates have gone to the city to be present at the 
opening of the season, at which time Count Leu- 
tholcl always felt as important as when a new stable 
was being built. Besides, he must now play the 
part of guardian to Countess Marie. 

“ Marie must not feel lonely ; she must go about 
and amuse herself/' said he. So Countess Marie 
was obliged — against her will — to send for dress- 
makers and buy charming ball and evening dresses, 
after which she was introduced into society by old 
Countess Romanesta Rernhagen, a distant relative, 
who was almost as important and kind-hearted and 
dignified as Count Leuthold himself. She had quar- 
relled with the latter all her life, and for a long time 
had held no intercourse with him ; but Countess 
Marie was a new bond of union between them. 
Countess Rernhagen drove up to the Kopa palace 
four or five times a day, to bring some new orna- 

[9i] 

( 


92 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


ment, or take Countess Marie to ride or shop. She 
would have liked to take entire possession of the 
girl, for she had a mania for introducing young 
relatives into society, and then if possible making 
matches for them. The good lady had never had 
any children, and fancied herself a misanthrope, 
while she could not exist without gayety. “ For 
Heaven’s sake, Leuthold, tell me what you mean to 
do with Marie? You have Flora. It’s just like an 
old, self-sufficient, selfish bachelor to want the girl 
to pine away in his mole’s burrow.” 

“ Mole’s burrow? I want her to amuse herself! 
1 want her to go wherever she likes, and you will 
introduce her, Romanesta.” 

“ I introduce her? 1 shall do no such thing. 
What concern is it of mine? What is she to me ? 
You never let the dear creature out of your 
clutches. Even if I do, it won’t be on your ac- 
count. It’s no credit to you, Leuthold, if the poor 
girl does have some pleasure. You might at least 
hit upon the bright idea of making Oswald your 
heiriind marrying Marie to him. That is the only 
thing you can do. But we must go. Ah ! here is 
Marie already dressed. Come, child, I am glad we 
can get away. I really make a sacrifice in calling 
for you when I know this Blue Beard, this Don 
Quixote, this protector of innocence, who leaves 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


93 


nothing for other people to do, is at home. I hate 
all men, but worst of all Leuthold Kopa. M 

Count Leuthold smiled pleasantly. “ You told 
me that thirty years ago, countess, and have not yet 
mentioned any reason. You must have felt a special 
affection for me, which I failed to notice.” 



CHAPTER X. 

“ Ah ! I feel as if I were in heaven,” said Rose to 
the handsome valet y Heinrich. Both were in the 
large, airy room on the ground floor, in which the 
servants sat and took their meals. Handsome Hein- 
rich had just finished writing a letter to his family 
in the Tyrol, and Rose had come in to take her 
plate of soup. She had pinned a little napkin over 
her dress, and daintily sipped the soup, in which 
she had crumbled small pieces of bread. “ Yes, 1 
feel as if I were in heaven !” said Rose, enthusias- 
tically, rolling up her eyes. “ I have lived in a great 
many different places, travelled about the world a 
great deal, but now I have found an asylum I will 
never give up. Never, never, never !” She uttered 
the words with true French emphasis, singing the 
last ones almost like an allegro. 

Heinrich, a phlegmatic native of the Tyrol, who 
was in the habit of serving as a sort of listening 
machine during mademoiselle’s periodical fits of 
[ 94 ] 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


95 


enthusiasm, folded his letter and said : “ Indeed ! 
Well, yes, the count is kind, and so is Count 
Oswald—” 

“ And Countess Marie,” cried Rose, taking an- 
other spoonful of soup, and then unfastening her 
napkin. “ But what are all of them compared 
to Fraulein Jenny, the angel — yes, angel?” Rose’s 
eyes and teeth sparkled as if trying to outshine each 
other, and she crumbled the last bit of bread to 
nothing in her delight. 

“ Indeed,” said handsome Heinrich, melting some 
sealing-wax. 

Rose might certainly have found a more sympa- 
thetic auditor. But she did not care. There were 
times when she must speak — must practice the art 
of concealing her thoughts. 

“ I love Fraulein Jenny,” she continued, as if to 
challenge Heinrich to contradict the assertion. 

“ Do you ?” said he ; “ you are very affectionate, 
Mademoiselle Rose.” He had no intention of being 
satirical ; he really thought he was saying something 
agreeable. “ No doubt you have already loved a 
great many people,” he continued. 

“ What do you mean?” cried Rose, rising, “ men 
or women ?” 

“ Why, both.” 

“ Oh ! never any man,” said Rose, sharply, look- 
ing at him with her beautiful eyes. “ Never any 


96 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


man except Jean Lefort, the knave!” And she 
seemed as if she were mentally grinding Jean Lefort 
between her white teeth. 

Heinrich gazed at her earnestly with his honest 
blue eyes. He could imagine the whole story, and 
felt a sincere sympathy for the knave. “ Oh !” said 
he. “ Who was this Jean Lefort?” 

Rose looked askance at him with a keen, eager 
face and dilated nostrils. “ Jean Lefort,” she said, 
very sweetly, “Jean Lefort was my betrothed hus- 
band, monsieur. And he went off to Algiers one 
night with the Zouaves — ” 

“ Really ! And why ?” 

“Why?” Rose laughed with forced merriment. 
“ Why are all men rascals ?” 

This remark was unanswerable. Heinrich rose, 
put his letter in his pocket, sighed, stretched him- 
self so that his red plush breeches, ditto vest, and 
liver-colored coat all parted company, and then 
moved slowly toward the door, where he turned as 
if he had just had a new idea. “ And what are 
women ?” said he. 

Rose now heard her bell, and, with a shrug of the 
shoulders, rustled past him. “ Ce que vous en faites ,” 
said she. “We are what you make us.” 

She vanished. Heinrich looked after her. “ Well, 
if that is true,” said he to himself, “ Jean Lefort has 
made nothing very good of you, Mademoiselle. 


the honor op the heart. 


97 


Upon my word, I would rather carry a snake in my 
pocket from Vienna to Innsbruck than ride in a 
carriage alone with you.” 

****** 

The lamps had een lighted in the streets, and 
also in the corridors of the city palaces. The 
candles in Countess Marie’s dressing-room were 
burning, and Rose had just spread out the ball cos- 
tume, which Countess Flora loudly admired and 
felt a longing desire to crush. The young girl’s 
apartments were all redolent of the atmosphere of a 
ball-room. The perfume bottles, the fresh flowers, 
with their rich exotic fragrance, the rustling waves 
of silk which now and then moved gently at the 
slightest draught of air, the clouds of muslin and 
piles of dainty underclothing instinctively suggested 
the glare of chandeliers, a gay crowd, dancing and 
music. 

Countess Marie was not excited, as girls usually 
are on the eve of a ball. Her manner when she 
came out of the old count’s library to commence 
her toilette was as calm and proud as usual. In the 
corridor leading to her own apartments she met her 
cousin Oswald, who greeted her with a smile. 
“Well, are you already at the ball in imagination, 
Marie? The first of the season. May I have a 
waltz?” 


98 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


Countess Marie bent her head. “ If you wish it, 
cousin,” she replied, passing on. 

“Why are you in such a hurry?” he said, follow- 
ing her a step. “ Whenever I meet you, you seem 
like a beautiful automaton set in motion by machin- 
ery. Or must I be vain enough to suppose that you 
avoid me? I can never get a moment’s chat with 
you. Why do you so persistently escape me? No, 
you must answer this one question — now, before the 
ball. What have I done ?” 

He spoke earnestly, somewhat angrily, and fol- 
lowed her so quickly that she was compelled to 
pause. She looked at him with a troubled glance, 
then averted her large dark eyes and raised her 
head proudly. “ You are mistaken; 1 do not under- 
stand you, cousin. I do not avoid you ; but it is 
time for me to dress for the ball. If you desire a 
long conversation say so, and I can defer it.” And 
she made him a formal bow. 

“ The d take a conversation,” cried the impet- 

uous young man, half despairingly. “You always 
talk as if I were giving you orders, and thus drive 
me away. What right have I to demand anything? 
Am I your master?” 

Again she turned her large dark eyes upon him, 
and once more the quick blood crimsoned her 
cheeks, but she did not answer immediately. At 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


last she said : “ At least you as well as Count Leu- 
thold are master in this house.” 

A sudden light dawned upon Oswald’s mind, sur- 
prise, indignation, and some nameless feeling flushed 
his bronzed cheeks. 

“Oh! that is ignoble, unkind, Marie. If there is 
any ruler in this house, it is neither my brother nor 
1, but you — you, the guest, not the guest, but our 
benefactress, the woman who brings light and joy 
into a bachelor’s lonely, cheerless home. What am I 
to say to you ? You show me no feeling save aver- 
sion. Now 1 think I can guess that this pride is the 
pride of your position. You consider yourself a 
stranger, when you are the bond that unites the 
family. You see your pride has no justification, no 
legitimate foundation. Or do I cast a shadow over 
this house? If so, you need only drive me away, 
for you are its mistress.” 

He bowed and turned away. Countess Marie 
had grown very pale, and a strange expression of 
horror appeared in her face ; now she stretched out 
her hand — to detain him? no; for she instantly let 
it fall by her side. 

Count Oswald disappeared around the corner of 
the corridor, and Countess Marie seemed to wake 
as if from a dream. She awoke, but the strange, 
vague dread did not leave her face until she reached 
her own room, where, amid the perfumes, flowers, 


100 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


lights, and clouds of silk, she saw Rose, who wel- 
comed her with a smile, and asked, with a great 
many unnecessary words, if she were ready to begin 
to dress, because she would take Countess Flora to 
Fraulein Jenny at once. 

But Countess Marie said there was time enough. 
She was too much bewildered to devote herself to 
the details of the toilette. Something had brought 
discord into her brave, calm, quiet heart, and the 
Frenchwoman’s big brown eyes annoyed her. 
Mademoiselle was one of those maids whose pres- 
ence is unendurable only when the mind is perfectly 
at ease. So Countess Marie said that Flora might 
stay and see her dress — for which permission Flora 
gave her a joyful hug. But there was still plenty 
of time — at least a quarter of an hour. Rose might 
go away for fifteen minutes. 

Nothing could have been more agreeable to Rose. 
She courtesied as if in the presence of royalty, and 
left the room. Such a pliant, modest, invaluable 
maid. 

On reaching the corridor she clapped her hands 
with such a wild, malicious delight, that the lamps 
under which she was passing shook as if in terror. 

“ So ! He is in love with you ! Madly in love ! 
And you are so much in love with him that you 
must have time to calm yourself before you are able 
to dress. You are very much flushed, and panting 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


101 


for breath. Oh, yes! And I should like to kiss 
your hands for it a thousand times, most gracious 
countess — no ! ten thousand, a thousand, thousand 
times ! Viola une nouvelle magnifique pour Mademoi- 
selle Jenny! Oh, yes , oh ! bien oui.' y Articulating 
the last words like those of a song, and accompanying 
them with the most expressive gestures, Rose fairly 
floated upstairs to Fraulein Jenny’s room. She 
tapped discreetly at the door, and when she entered 
seemed to kiss the air as she spoke. 

Fraulein Jenny had just been reading a French 
novel by the Countess Dash. She had taken it 
to pass away the time until called to admire Countess 
Marie’s toilette, or else to forget the strange anxiety 
and impatience that had consumed her all day. 
For some vague dread had really haunted the airy, 
graceful, fairy-like little governess. She had jingled 
her keys ail day with almost feverish restlessness, 
and two or three times contradicted her own orders. 
Toward evening this feeling had revealed itself 
still more. She had wandered about the house as 
if on strings, and looked “ terribly thin,” as Rose 
observed. And Rose, who had watched her with 
delight, added mischievously, “ She would like to be 
at this ball, too — voila. iy 

Fraulein Jenny’s face, as she glanced up from her 
book, seemed almost waxen in its pallor by the 


102 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


light of her little lamp, which was concentrated on 
the pages by a green shade. 

The governess’ sitting-room looked uncomfortable 
in the green dusk. One felt that the occupant “did 
not live there,” as Rose expressed it, that she was 
not at home amid her surroundings. There are 
sitting-rooms which always betray their owner’s 
restless hearts. 

“ Excuse me if I have disturbed you, Fraulein 
Jenny,” said Rose, with her graceful ease of manner. 
“ But I have come to ask a favor.” 

“ A favor?” said Fraulein Jenny. “ What is it?” 

“ I took advantage of the fifteen minutes before 
the countess wishes to dress for the ball to come up 
here. I wanted to ask whether I might go out to- 
night — to the theatre?” 

“And why don’t you make the request of Count- 
ess Marie?” asked Fraulein Jenny. “She is your 
mistress, as you know, mademoiselle.” 

“ Oh !” said Rose, as if grieved and wounded by 
some sharp reproof. “ Oh ! Fraulein, will you 
never forgive me?” And with true French impul- 
siveness she made a theatrical gesture of despair. 
“ And besides, it isn’t easy to speak to Countess 
Marie to-day, she is so preoccupied 

“ A young girl’s pre-occupation,” said the gover- 
ness, half to herself. “ A ball is still a wonderful 
thing to her.” 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


103 


“ It isn’t exactly the ball that occupies the countess’ 
mind,” said Rose, with a meaning glance and a faint 
smile, as she smoothed her apron with one hand, 
put the other in her pocket, and approached a step 
nearer, as is the custom with all servants when they 
have anything to tell. “ It’s something far more 
important. Monsieur le Comte Oswald — ” 

The set smile gradually disappeared from Frau- 
lein Jenny’s face as she fixed her large, green eyes 
steadily on Rose. She still held the French novel 
in a firm grasp ; the green shade lay beside her on 
the table, and the lamp illumined the whole room. 
But the governess instantly regained her compos- 
ure. She knew that she must seem indifferent, and, 
therefore, began to read again, looking up from 
time to time, and saying, carelessly, “ Ah ! you can 
go when and as you choose, mademoiselle. You 
know that. No one requires your services except 
the countess. .So Countess Marie anticipates a 
great deal of pleasure at the ball, and is impatient? 
Or did you say — ” 

“ Pardon me, Fraulein,” said Rose, approaching a 
step nearer, and her voice sounded as clear as a 
bell, “ I did not say impatient for the ball. I said 
restless, agitated, for she— she has had a— but you 
will not betray me, Fraulein Jenny ?” 

Rose was standing very near the table, and the 
lamplight gilded her beautiful, keen, dark, southern 


104 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


face. She had folded her arms, and was bending 
toward the governess. 

Fraulein Jenny’s lips were firmly compressed, and 
the page she was turning trembled in her hand. 
She ought not to hear what Rose wanted to tell ; 
she was placing herself on a level with the servant. 
And yet she must know. All the nervous agitation 
she had felt all day concentrated in a feverish flush, 
which burned vividly on both cheeks. 

“ Betray you !” she said, with an inimitable shrug 
of her shoulders. “ Come, go on.” And she smiled. 

“ Well, she has had a declaration of love,” said 
Rose, leaning back to note the effect of her words. 

But Fraulein Jenny was a perfect mistress of the 
art of dissimulation. What strength of mind she 
must have possessed to keep her set smile, which 
had gradually changed to a stony grimace. “ You 
are mad !” she said at last, in a strangely clear 
voice. 

“ Mad !” cried Rose, in delight, and then, with 
artless loquacity, continued : “ When l hear it 

with my own ears and see it with my own eyes. 
Monsieur le Comte Oswald has waited for — ah ! 
so often already, in the corridor, and reproached 
her, but so tenderly, because she avoided him. 
And she, Countess Marie, was a little distant; and 
then he grew angry and said she was mistress of 
the house and everything belonged to her and he 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


105 


was her most humble servant and — oh ! it was a 
regular declaration, Fraulein Jenny!” cried Rose, 
still with the utmost innocence. 

A loud laugh blended with the one she was try- 
ing to stifle. Yes, Fraulein Jenny actually laughed. 
“ Oh ! and what else?” she asked, closing the book 
and slowly rising. But the movement was too 
abrupt for indolence. 

“ Well, then there was an engagement for a dance 
— and continuation in our next, as the novels say,” 
cried Rose, in a jesting tone. “ But this is only 
meant for your ears !” she repeated importantly, 
“ and I am sure that — ” 

“Why?” said Fraulein Jenny, with the same 
stony smile. “ The whole matter is only a jest.” 
****** 

Countess Rernhagen’s carriage has rolled under 
the doorway, a servant has rushed up stairs, and 
Countess Marie, in a beautiful ball dress, with a gold- 
embroidered cloak thrown around her shoulders, 
comes rustling down, her tiny feet in their white 
satin shoes peeping forth at every step. 

Count Leuthold’s carriage also drove up, and 
Count Oswald went to his brother’s room. The 
servants were very busy, and there was a confusion 
of shouts, and the creaking of wheels. 

Fraulein Jenny had admired Countess Marie’s 
ball dress before the latter went away, and still 


106 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


stood motionless in the corridor, while Countess 
Flora ran on before. As Count Oswald approached 
the governess, the set smile at last vanished from 
her face, which became horribly changed. The 
corridor might have been full of people, but it 
would not disturb her now, though she was usually 
so cautious and prudent. Her slender little hand 
grasped his arm with a giant’s strength, her green 
eyes sparkled with a baleful light, and every muscle 
in her face quivered as she said, in a low tone, in 
French, “ Remember!” He paused — only for a 
moment, held more by her eye than her hand, then 
cast a glance toward the end of the dimly-lighted 
corridor, bent down to her with a frowning brow 
and a strange pallor on his handsome face, and said, 
under his breath, “ Petite folle /” 

* * * * * 

The ball is over, for it is three o’clock in the 
morning. Count Leuthold, Count Oswald and 
Countess Marie have returned home. Countess 
Marie, spite of her naturally quiet temperament, 
still hears the music amid her dreams, and Count 
Leuthold is heartily glad to feel the soft bed under 
him. Fraulein Jenny’s lamp has long been extin- 
guished, and only Count Oswald watches for the 
dawn. His pale face is visible in the gray light 
that steals over the opposite house, as he stands at 
the window awaiting the coming day. 



CHAPTER XI. 

Herr Ilde’s house fairly crouched under the 
heavy, ceaseless autumn rain. All the narrow, dirty 
side streets seemed dead. The half decayed clothes 
which usually hung before the countless reeking, 
dingy, cellar-like shops had been taken in by the 
dealers, lest they might lose some of their dirt. 
The usurers who had their dens here vanished 
down the narrow, dark streets, collected in knots 
again, then all disappeared. 

One saw neither beastly faces nor battered hats. 
It was a cheerless day everywhere, on the high- 
ways and in the open fields, but more cheerless still 
in these haunts of crime and corruption, and the 
dampness, the noise of the rushing rain, and the 
twilight dimness of this autumn season seemed most 
cheerless of all in the rope-dancer’s bare room. 

Rodolfo was no longer in bed. His health was 
entirely restored, but he had not yet left his room. 
He was sitting on the floor, in his shabby black coat, 

[107] 


108 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


with his head resting on his folded arms, and from 
time to time a shudder ran through his frame, as a 
breeze ruffles the surface of a lake. On the chim- 
ney-piece were a few copper coins, the last of a 
bank-note, a relic of the good old days of plenty, 
which had remained forgotten in the bottom of his 
purse. The ceaseless rain without darkened the 
bare, dirty room, and Rodolfo sat motionless, as he 
had continued to sit ever since, three days ago, he 
left his bed and looked into the little, cheap mirror 
which lay broken on the floor. 

From time to time the youth raised his weary 
head and gazed steadily at the torrent without. A 
terrible, incredible transformation had taken place 
in the handsome, winning face. The delicate nose 
had become a red lump ; the eyes were bleared, the 
lids drooped, the lips were parched, the cheeks 
seamed with scars. 

What thoughts had passed through the lad’s 
heart at the first sight of this destruction, ere it 
hardened into this unnatural, horrible repose ? 

He had become hideous. A creature from whom 
all would recoil. He was unfit for the only profes- 
sion he had learned and could follow. Weak and 
dishonest from his earliest childhood, he knew how 
to do nothing except to perform his easy tricks and 
sell his stereotyped smile for a certain price. And 
now he was like a wood-cutter who had lost both 


THU HOtfOR OR the: hejart. l09 

arms. At the first moment his feelings had only 
been a horrible despair at the thought of his lost 
beauty — a sudden madness ; then a terrible dread 
had crept into his mind, a dull, heavy, oppressive 
fear, the fear of hunger, of ruin, of the future. He 
was so utterly alone in the world. It had not been 
so while he possessed his smiling, rosy, winning 
face. Among rope-dancers beauty is the most 
lucrative of all qualities. 

By degrees the sudden terror and dull rage had 
merged into tameless fury. A fierce hatred and 
envy of all who were rich, handsome, or beloved 
gnawed at the hitherto joyous heart, and already 
bore a luxuriant crop of poisonous blossoms. So he 
sat brooding sullenly, often uttering low groans, 
and rocking to and fro, and for the first time in his 
life avoided the streets where he must meet people, 
asked himself what he should begin to do, and 
gnashed his teeth and cursed a God in whom he 
had never believed. 

Monsieur Jacques was also at home to-day. It 
was no weather to “ look for a place.” There were 
no crowds on the bridges and at the corners of the 
streets, and he only looked for a place on days when 
a number of people collected together. Then he 
always brought home a great many handkerchiefs, 
snuff-boxes, and purses, which, in the quiet, hot 
hours of noon, he spread out and arranged in piles. 


110 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


In the evening he began his quest again, and when 
morning dawned returned from his useless work in 
taverns and wine cellars, refreshed and comforted. 
But this wet day was no time to look for a place, 
and Monsieur Jacques had slept till noon. Now, 
drowsy and yawning, he came to his neighbor’s 
room. His livery looked as if it had been dragged 
through all the puddles in the streets. 

“ What, lad, on the floor again ?” he yawned. 
“ When will you be yourself once more? Here, 
take a drink.” And he pushed the boy with his 
foot. The latter raised his distorted face. He 
blushed whenever he met the servant’s eye, for he 
was ashamed of his own ugliness. It was the only 
shame he had ever been taught. 

“ What am 1 to do ?” he wailed, like some wild 
animal. “ What am I to do ?” 

“ Why, are you still brooding over the thought 
that you can’t go on the trapeze any more ?” said 
Jacques, kindly, as he sat down on the ragged bed 
and took a long pull at his flask. “ Come, come, it’s 
better to beg than be a rope-dancer. Such a con- 
stant risk of breaking your neck. You must ‘ look 
for a place.’ As I do !” 

The rope-dancer stared at him. “ Only steal !” 
said he. 

There was something terrible in the tone in which 
the boy uttered the words, “ Only steal something 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


Ill 


akin to the thirst of some savage animal which has 
smelt blood, and now tugging at its chain is forced 
to content itself with bread. Ever since Rodolfo 
could remember he had always lived in the intoxi- 
cation of applause. He had sung, revelled in the 
excitement of his dangerous feats, then in wine, and 
then sin. He had profaned, desecrated all that 
makes youth beautiful. He had bitten the hand 
that caressed him, been loaded with presents and 
robbed the givers. And now that he had become 
loathsome, deformed, useless, he could only steal. 
The words that came from his lips were more terri- 
ble than the /:xy of want and hunger ; it was the 
sigh of the man, who, enervated by luxury, is no 
longer satisfied with bread — even the bread of sin. 

“ Only steal !” These three days of mute despair 
had changed Rodolfo into a horrible creature. His 
heart burned with a fierce hatred of all who were 
rich, beautiful, beloved, and happy. 

“ Well, ancf you will have enough to do !” replied 
Jacques, consolingly. “ Here, take another drink. 
I have always liked you, my boy, and regretted 
that you were wasting the best days of your life. 
We have something to do to-morrow. I, Wilhelm, 
who lives below, and whose face no one has ever 
seen and Kopp. A splendid chance. Ilde told us 
of it. You will soon learn when you have looked 


112 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


on once or twice. And don’t be afraid if I intro- 
duce you. Here take another drink.” 

Rodolfo drank greedily, thirstily, and then once 
more laid his head on his folded arms, and let 
Jacques talk on, while the rain plashed, and the 
twilight cast changeful shadows on his cowering, 
motionless figure. 



CHAPTER XII. 

“ Herr Count, I shall expect you in my room at 
ten o’clock this evening. “ Lina.” 

The rainy day had ushered in a dark, rainy night, 
in which the light of the dim street lamps was 
reflected in black, shining pools of water. In the 
street where Herr Ilde’s house stands lamps are so 
rare that a long abyss of gloom, outlined by a faint 
whitish mist, extends from one to the other. The 
people who frequent this street are not fond of 
lamps, and would cheerfully dispense with them 
entirely. The residents do not care to go out in 
the evening ; it is a quiet quarter. The police have 
little to do here. These people never rob one 
another, and carefully avoid any noise or nocturnal 
scandal. Through the gulfs of gloom, under the 
few lamps, over the glittering pavement, and through 
the pools, gleaming like jet, walks one of Herr Ilde’s 
lodgers, the little factory girl, Lina. It is a long time 
since she had used her room, for there has been a 
great deal of work to do. 

[i 1 3] 


114 


the honor of the heart. 


She paused a moment before the house, in the 
midst of a puddle which had formed in a hollow in 
the uneven pavement, and looked around, perhaps 
to see if any one were following her. But the 
street was silent, empty, and deserted, except for 
the loud plashing of the rain. The young girl wore 
a coarse black woolen dress, a black shawl, and an 
old black hat, She opened the door with a key, 
lighted a small wax candle, went up the well-known 
stairs, and unlocked the door of her little room. 

This little room contained only the most necessary 
furniture — a bed, a table, and two chairs ; but it had 
one remarkable peculiarity. Fraulein Lina often left 
it perfectly neat, and four weeks after found the 
floor covered with mud-stains, the bed disordered, 
and some of the window-panes broken. Fraulein 
Lina, however, was a quiet, gentle, considerate 
lodger, and neyer complained, and it was said that 
on this account Herr Ilde, though he had never 
seen her face, cherished a secret tender love for her 
in his withered old heart. 

Fraulein Lina drew a candle out of an old knitting- 
bag, adorned with faded embroidery, put it in 
a candlestick, and lighted it. Then she laid aside 
her black woolen shawl, and removed from her hat 
the disfiguring black veil, which looked like the 
mourning weeds worn by a mute at a funeral. 

Her fair hair had grown heavy and damp with 


THE HONOR OP THE HEART. 


115 


moisture, and she smoothed it with her little thin 
hands. It was wet with the rain, and Fraulein Lina 
shivered. Yet dim as was the light of the candle, 
it justified the secret love with which Herr Ilde was 
jeeringly charged ; for Lina was a beautiful — nay, a 
very beautiful girl, small and delicate as an elf. 
Her clearly-cut features looked as if they were 
carved from ivory, and her large eyes sparkled 
brightly. The young girl also drew from her knit- 
ting-bag an article which seemed by no means 
appropriate : a little watch, that glittered like a 
cluster of diamonds ; looked at the hour, and then 
paced up and down the room. It grew colder and 
damper the longer she remained in the chamber, 
and Lina shivered, took the thick shawl, wrapped it 
closer around her, and then sat down at the table 
and watched the candle melt and run away, watched 
it with a white, calm, resolute face, from which one 
might expect anything. And in this attitude, listen- 
ing to the ceaseless rush of the rain, she waited, 
until the door below opened, the stairs creaked, and 
a hand groped for the handle of her door ; then she 
rose and turned her face toward the new-comer. 

A tall, broad-shouldered man, clad in a rough 
coat, with a cap drawn over his brow, and a plaid 
shawl, entered, dripping with water, but with a 
bright smile on his handsome face. 


116 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


“ Brr!” said he. “ It’s horrible weather, and here 
I am.” 

“ Good evening, Oswald,” said Fraulein Jenny — 
for Lina was known in [Count Kopa’s palace as 
Fraulein Jenny Lorm — but there was no trace of 
her usual sweet smile on the stern, resolute face, 
and she wrapped herself more closely in her black 
shawl. 

****** 

Besides the chilly dampness, the dim light, and 
the monotonous plashing of the rain, a~vague, indes- 
cribable feeling rested on the room and weighed 
upon the hearts of both. Count Oswald tried 
to speak and laugh naturally, shook his shaggy coat, 
and leaned against the mantel-piece. Fraulein 
Jenny, who was so different here from the person 
she seemed in the count’s house, sat in silence for a 
time beside the old rickety table, her silky, golden 
tresses just visible within the circle of light. 

“ How long it is since we have met here,” said 
Count Oswald, showing his white teeth. 

“Yes — it is a long time,” replied Fraulein Jenny, 
in her low suppressed voice, with a strange expres- 
sion on her keen, eager face. She looked even more 
beautiful than when she smiled, but there was a 
gloomy expression in the eyes, which gleamed with 
a cold, green light. “Yes.” She was silent a 
moment, as if to take breath, then said quickly, 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


117 


abruptly : “ A truce to fine speeches. If I have 
troubled you to-day, after so long a time, Herr 
Count, it is because I want to tell you a story.’* 

“ A story ?” he asked, with another smile, that 
sparkled in his eyes and revealed his white teeth, 
as he leaned over her chair. He felt as if he were 
fettered. Not for the world could he have taken 
her hand, even as he had done at their last meeting 
here. A gulf yawned between them. 

“ Yes,” said she. “A story, ft is perhaps two 
years, Count Oswald, since a pleasure-loving gentle- 
man came to Paris — without money. He was a 
German, a man of the world, a bon viveur of the first 
rank. He had means enough to last a month, then 
his resources were exhausted; for while in the army 
he had squandered his little fortune, incurred enor- 
mous debts, and at last quarrelled with his brother, 
the head of the family. So he went to Paris to 
study, and hide his poverty among strangers. Dur- 
ing the first month he had a box at the opera, visited 
the families of all the German nobles he knew, fre- 
quented the Jardin Mabille, and spent his nights at 
fashionable cafes. In one of these aristocratic Ger- 
man families he made the acquaintance of a gover- 
ness, a young girl.” 

Fraulein Jenny paused, with compressed lips, 
staring fixedly at the light. 

“ And he loved this girl,” said Count Oswald, 


118 


THE HONOR OP THE HEART. 


showing his white teeth, in an attempt to conceal 
his discomfort. 

Fraulein Jenny slowly turned her large, dark eyes 
toward him, and he seemed to be under the domin- 
ion of some spell. 

“ He loved this girl, and took her soul and heart. 
1 belonged to you, Oswald. I was neither your 
betrothed bride nor your wife ; I only knew that I 
belonged to you for my whole life. The magic 
power of love constrained me. You still had many 
of the ideas common among officers, and took the 
matter more lightly, carelessly, and ardently. It 
was an indescribable time — a time of happiness 
which can never return, never, never. Days passed 
such as can be experienced only once in a life, when 
we seemed to the world the merest strangers, and in 
stolen moments clung to each other, as if the world 
contained nothing except ourselves. But they 
could not last. Your money was exhausted, you 
were compelled to join the dissolute students in the 
Quartier Latin, and could no longer visit in fashion- 
able society. The family in which I lived regretted 
your absence, but we still met, and our love daily 
increased — there was no room in my heart for any- 
thing but you. My employers at last became sus- 
picious. Scenes followed, scenes in which love, 
pride, and happiness made me forget all prudence. 
I broke every tie, left my situation, and came tq 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


119 


you ; I sat in a fiacre and sent a message to your 
room, and you came down to the carriage, put your 
arms around my neck, and called me your betrothed 
bride. 1 became your betrothed. I rented a room 
in the house that adjoined the one where you lived, 
and was known there by that name. I loved you ; 
I had patience and could wait. And we waited. 
You wished to make a career for yourself, and I 
served, and had a little bird-cage in the window, 
and dusted the trifles you gave me. I had a view 
of the roofs, and while I served counted the 
moments till you came.’’ 

Fraulein Jenny paused again. 

Count Oswald rubbed his hands and forced him- 
self to laugh. u Ah ! those were happy days. 


“ T'en souviens — tu ma vie 
Du jouri' 

“ Yes, they were happy days. Florine and 
Nanine, the friends of your friends, Loto and 
Labrouche. How we laughed— Sundays in the 
green country, whither we went in rude wagons. 
How young and hopeful we all were! But time 
passed, and both you and I saw that you were too 
idle, too much spoiled, too gay, or too weary to 
begin a new career, especially to learn anything. 
The whole had been only a beautiful day-dream. 
And want came. Want came, and reason sobered 


120 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


our love without lessening it. If we were in earnest 
about our future plans, there was but one way of 
being united. You must be reconciled to your 
brother; he must once more make you his heir, and 
when your position was secure — when we had once 
more ‘ got round him/ as we called it in the lan- 
guage of our merry ‘ Quartier/ I could become 
your wife. But how was this to be accomplished ? 
You were both proud, neither would make the first 
advances. So my idle brain and loving heart 
formed a plan, that pleased my dear old student.” 
Fraulein Jenny smiled as she uttered the words, but 
the smile was a little too hard, and instantly van- 
ished again. “ One evening we read an advertise- 
ment stating that Count Leuthold Kopa, who was 
then in Strasbourg, wanted a governess for his little 
niece. Applicants were to address Madame Emilie 
Lessnie. I set out at once, introduced myself to 
Madame Lessnie, gave her my last gold piece and 
then my recommendations, and won the victory 
over my rivals. Two weeks after I entered the 
count’s family the housekeeper at Castle Kopa died. 
He delayed getting another till he went there. An 
upper servant could perform the duties in the mean- 
time. But I had gained the count’s esteem and 
confidence, and 1 pretended to take the greatest 
pleasure in household duties. Countess Flora 
loved me as if I were not her governess ; so, by 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


121 


imperceptible degrees, I became all in all to the 
family. At Castle Kopa and in the city palace I 
directed the housekeeping. The count’s brother, 
who had been a mauvais sujet , and left his home, was 
never mentioned, until a certain evening, when I 
made a remark whose effect 1 had been preparing 
by a thousand little intrigues, and which induced 
the old count to think of recalling you, for a recon- 
ciliation, since this course would be best for the 
honor of his name. You came, and resumed your 
old position. Count Leuthold, who only lives in 
ceremonies, took you as the Roman emperors 
adopted heirs. You once more shared the prop- 
erty, and were recognized as the future bearer of 
the name. And you and I seemed to be strangers 
to each other, for a long, long time must elapse ere 
you were securely fixed in your position, and I had 
obtained so strong a hold over Leuthold’s heart that 
he could endure the thought of seeing me his rela- 
tive. So we were strangers to each other, for if we 
betrayed our plans too soon all was lost. You 
would have been stigmatized as a cheat, who tried 
to deceive your brother through me. So we car- 
ried our caution so far that we never spoke to each 
other in private, not even when we believed our- 
selves entirely unobserved. Not even in the lonely 
park, the desolate fields, the empty corridors. But 
it was necessary to devise some expedient to enable 


122 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


us to meet and talk to each other about our plans — 
our love.” Again Fraulein Jenny paused a second, 
and once more the same strange, hard, almost scorn- 
ful smile flitted over her face. “ So 1 hired this 
room, and, when it was necessary, wrote for you to 
come here. And on evenings when I was supposed 
to be ill or asleep, ‘ Fraulein Lina ’ saw her brother, 
who could not visit her at the factory because her 
employer would not allow it. Is this all true, Herr 
Count ?” 

“Yes,” said he; “I am here again, my position 
will soon be so assured that I can consider myself 
independent, and I owe it entirely to you. What 
would have become of me? I was frivolous — cared 
little for my life. Then you made a plan — thought 
of my future ; I laughed at the design, for I believed 
it impossible that a woman could execute it ; but 
you accomplished it. I thank you ; I — ” He could 
not take her hand as he said this, in a tone of feigned 
emotion. 

She still sat quietly before him, wrapped in her 
shawl, but her eyes never wandered from his face. 
“Yes,” said she, “ and you belong to me, do you 
not ?” 

He made no reply, but with a very pale face bent 
down and kissed her. Then he took her hand, or 
rather she grasped his, and, raising her head, gazed 
steadily into his eyes. “ You belong to me ; do not 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


123 


forget that. Do not forget that I have given you 
all. My future, every hour of my past and present 
life, every thought of my soul, every pulsation of 
my heart, my hopes, my conscience, my pride — 
everything! For your sake I have learned to lie 
and dissemble — daily and hourly to play a farce. 
For your sake I have forgotten and lost all my 
peace, my innocence, my pride.” 

There was a shade of rudeness in this grief, like 
some nameless anguish or dread. She still held his 
hand in a firm grasp, and her face was upturned to 
his ; but no tears filled her eyes, no expression of 
her countenance betrayed pain or pleading. 

“ I wish it had never been,” he cried, with a sud- 
den outburst of feeling. “ I wish you had never 
done it, Jeanne, so help me God !” 

“You wish that!” she exclaimed, suddenly start- 
ing from her chair, while the shawl fell on the floor. 
“And shall I tell you- why? Because you love 
her.” 

“ Love !” he cried, his face crimsoning. “ Love 
whom ?” 

“ Her ! Countess Marie !” She paused, gasping 
for breath, and her eyes pierced him like daggers ; 
then the light suddenly died out of them. For he 
laughed, a short, careless laugh. “ You are mad !” 
said he. And once more he stood by her side, 
threw his arm around her neck, kissed her with icy 


124 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


lips, and said, in a quick, vehement, breathless tone, 
“You are mad, 1 tell you. Don’t say that again. 
Whom should I love, if not you, Jeanne ?” 

Was he trying to conceal something, or did he 
wish to escape from his own thoughts? 

The governess’ eyes slowly fell, and she drew a 
long breath. “ Forgive me,” she said, in a low, 
anxious tone, as if chilled. “ Perhaps I was mad. 
But 1 saw that you did not treat each other 
naturally. From the first moment you hated her, 
and she you. What but love could have actuated 
you both? And the French maid told me you 
offered yourself to her yesterday before the ball. 
These are all great lies, I know. But I was anxious, 
and could not help telling you. It is childish for 
me to be afraid. You belong to me forever.” 

She threw her arms around his neck, and laid her 
face against his cheek, as if fainting. 

“ See what a little goose you are,” he said, in a 
hasty, impatient, haughty tone. “ I — I belong to 
you. But don’t tell me of it so often. It offends 
my pride to be looked upon as a piece of property, 
a slave, a chattel. I belong to you by the love that 
unites us, but by nothing else. Have I ever made 
any vow to you, pledged my honor, given myself to 
you by any of the oaths the usurers of love extort ? 
I belong to you by love, yes ; but by nothing else. 
And that needs no warning.” 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


125 


“ By love !” she cried, scornfully, shaking back 
her fair hair as she stood trembling with excitement 
before the tall, handsome man. “ Oh ! what a poor 
security ! And if, my old student, you some day 
cast away this love like a withered flower, 1 suppose 
I ought to quietly submit, go out of your way, tell 
over the rosary of my memories, and then die ! 
Ha ! ha ! You belong to me ! Not by the love that 
may die at any moment, nay, perhaps is already 
dead, but by ni}^ right ! I have given you all, the 
hopes of my past and future, and in return I claim 
the happiness of serving you, of spending the rest 
of my life by your side, my beloved and hated 
Oswald ! For I often hate you as fiercely, as fer- 
vently as I love you ! During many silent nights I 
have prayed, plotted, worked for you, and ought you 
to drive me away from the door of your happiness 
with naught save a beautiful memory? Ask the 
furious tempest raging without: it will tell you my 
right to your joys and sorrows. I have laid my 
love, my youth, my whole future at your feet, like 
a sacrifice whose fragrant incense rose before you, 
and you have accepted the sacrifice. When I tore 
myself away from you, went among strangers, 
smiled, and flattered, and lied to them, while I 
thought of you with ardent love, and jealousy and 
longing ; what days I spent during the cheerless 
autumn. You do not know how defenseless, how 


126 THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 

poor, how weak we women are. We ask men for 
happiness, but only one man can give it to us. You 
are soon consoled — we never. You can forget ; we 
cannot, even when we are faithless. A man’s heart 
is soon satisfied, a woman gives comfort and reaps 
longing. Every woman who loves carries in her 
soul a store of misery, at the bare suspicion of which 
a man would despair and die, for the men we love 
have a cruel skill in wounding us. The day on 
which we first see the ruler of our hearts decides 
our whole future lives. And you are so handsome, 
so madly loved, and withal so calm. Men have no 
idea of real hatred or genuine love. You are piti- 
less to the unhappy, merciless to those who sin. 
You will never feel the madness of despair, but 
neither can you enjoy the bliss of a heaven upon 
earth. You have the red cheeks of health, like the 
coffins of the Egyptian mummies, which contain 
only dust. Oftentimes we do not know how to 
understand your dull, proud, imperious repose. 
But we love you, to shame, hatred, death ! You 
have robbed me of my heart, called me your be- 
trothed bride, suffered me to plot, strive, lie for you. 
You will say that all this was only a youthful, care- 
less, passing fancy, or happiness that never lasts. It 
may be so. No law, no vow, no social obligations 
bind you to me. Only the honor of the heart ! Do 
you understand the words, my old student ?” 


THE HONOR OE THE HEART. 


m 

And the impulsive, tiny, elfin creature slowly 
loosened her arms and gazed at him with an 
expression of blended mischief, humility, affection, 
and menace. And he — slowly bent his face, which 
glowed like fire. 

“ Do you understand ?” she repeated, in a tone of 
savage triumph. “ The honor of the heart !” 

He was still silent. Then she became childishly 
coaxing, laughed, and patted his cheeks. 

“ Yes,” he said, suddenly, in a harsh, deep, ring- 
ing voice, and it seemed as if he had suddenly 
grasped the iron chain of his past with an impatient 
hand. “ Yes, I belong to you.” 

She smiled again, then leaned her head on her 
folded arms and wept bitterly. She felt that he no 
longer loved her. 

****** 

“ So !” said Rose, as, long after midnight, she 
slowly went up the stairs of the Kopa palace. 
Hour after hour she had crouched close by the 
door of the governess’ room, in the gloomy corridor 
below, listening to the rushing rain, until Fraulein 
Jenny came home. And now she glided up the 
stairs, holding her skirts closely around her, that 
they might not rustle. “ Ah ! so you said you had 
a headache and went to bed early. And when it 
grew darker you took advantage of a moment when 
there was nobody on the stairs, and ran down the 


128 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


steps out into the night. So ! In an old dark dress ! 
Of course you had an appointment. But it cer- 
tainly wasn’t with a gentleman, or you would not 
have worn that dress. The next time, Fraulein 
Jenny, I’ll manage to follow you. Yes, it’s very 
fine. Et je vous souhaite la bonne nuit, mademoiselle , et 
que le diable vous emportela. ” 

****** 

And mademoiselle, drawing a long breath, quietly 
laid herself down to rest. 



THEN SHE PELL AT THE COUNTESS’ FEET . — See Page 152 , 








CHAPTER XIII. 

The rain fell monotonously from the sky, and the 
gray light struggled through heavy clouds. But 
clear, bright weather, like that of early spring, fol- 
lowed these dreary days. All nature seemed to 
utter a sigh of relief. In the country the meadows 
and trees looked green once more, and the horses 
belonging to the count’s stud were allowed to run 
at large in the pastures. The grooms sat in front of 
the stable doors, shouting merrily to the peasant 
lasses, and the smoke of the locomotives on the rail- 
road was the only cloud in the blue sky. Count 
Leuthold stood at the window of his city palace, 
gazing at the bright heavens. 

“ It is like a spring day ; the birds are singing ; it 
would be pleasant to spend a few days at Castle 
Kopa, don’t you think so? It is really just like 
spring.” 

It was, indeed, like spring. On the steps of a 
house opposite to the Kopa palace, a vagrant sat 

[129] 


130 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


sunning himself. It was a lonely, quiet avenue, a 
secluded aristocratic quarter, where the bustle of 
the other streets sounded like a faint echo. 

The servants were informed of the plan, and 
Count Leuthold asked his brother whether he 
thought it would be possible to make some im- 
provements in the domestic offices during the few 
days of their absence. 

Countess Marie, with Rose’s assistance, packed a 
few articles of clothing in a valise ; little Flora put 
up various bundles of dolls, which she always 
opened again and decided not to take with her, and 
Fraulein Jenny put on a walking dress to do some 
shopping. There are always purchases to be made 
when people leave a city for five or six days. And 
Fraulein Jenny was in a hurry ; she went on foot. 
She was only going to a dressmaker’s in the next 
street. 

She came out of the door, passed down the steps 
in the bright autumn sunlight, and walked along 
the aristocratic street to a more bustling quarter. 
The man who was sunning himself opposite, now 
rose with a yawn, and in his long coat and battered 
hat, the remnants of a handsome livery, slunk after 
the lady. 

Fraulein Jenny, attired in a short gray walking 
dress, with gray parasol in her hand, came out of 
the dressmaker’s and entered the crowded streets 


THE HONOR OE THE HEART. 


131 


again, where she received a bow from some one in 
the throng. When any one bows to a lady she 
usually looks at the person to suit the response to 
his station in society. But Fraulein Jenny made no 
response at all. She might as well have been saluted 
by Medusa’s head and thus turned to stone. Her 
beautiful eyes looked unnaturally large, and her 
lips were firmly compressed. The man bowed 
again, bowed with the smiling, confident, terribly 
familiar expression which roughly tears us from the 
present with the rude, dirty hand of a long-buried 
past. And now Fraulein Jenny, smiling brightly, 
answered the salute. The man moved, as if to 
approach her, but she looked steadily at him, and he 
drew back. She did not return to the count’s 
palace, but went on down the street, till she reached 
a large restaurant, which She entered, taking her 
seat at a small marble table at the farthest corner. 
Several persons looked after her, and then fixed 
their eyes on their newspapers again. 

A waiter dressed in a white apron and greasy 
black coat, followed her, and, putting his hand on 
the little marble table, waited for her order. 

She asked for something, which, with a glass of 
water, was soon set before her. 

Just at that moment a shabby looking fellow, in a 
battered old hat, entered the restaurant. He had a 
sharp, keen face, and looked eagerly around. The 


132 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


waiter went up to him, and in a harsh, doubtful 
tone, asked what he wanted ? The man replied in 
French, that he was looking for some one. French 
always exerts a strange influence over Germans, and 
the waiter drew back as if in the presence of a 
duke. The man walked on to the marble table 
where the lady sat, removed his hat, and, holding it 
in his hand, smiled and murmured a few words. 

“ Good morning,” said Fraulein Jenny, in French. 
“ I recognized you instantly. Let me order some- 
thing for you.” 

The Frenchman hung his hat on the wall, called 
the waiter, asked for absinthe, and then sat down in 
the velvet chair opposite Fraulein Jenny, rested one 
elbow on the table, and said, in the courteous 
phraseology of his native language : 

“ Oh ! I am delighted to see you again, mademoi- 
selle. I was so astonished. Mon Dieu ! 1 lodge in a 
house, and in an adjoining room — when was it? — 
oh ! day before yesterday ! — heard voices I knew. 
So I looked through a crack in the door, for it is a 
very dilapidated house, mademoiselle, and saw— 
whom ? Mademoiselle Jeanne and Monsieur Oswald 
de Paris. From the Rue de Rem part. How 
strange it was !” 

Fraulein Jenny laughed heartily, then paused 
suddenly, wearily averted her face, and murmured 
a few polite words. “ Yes, it was a fortunate meet- 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


133 


in g. So you are living in this city, Monsieur 
Jacques ?” 

“ Yes,” he answered hoarsely. “And I suppose 
Mademoiselle is Madame Oswald?” 

Fraulein Jenny paused for the hundredth part of 
a second, and gazed through the window into the 
crowded street. 

“ Yes,” she answered, in a quick, pleasant tone. 

“ Oh! but the porter told me Fraulein Jenny was 
the governess, and Monsieur Oswald the brother of 
Monseigneur, the owner of the house,” murmured 
Jacques, as he swallowed his absinthe, without add- 
ing a drop of water. 

For a moment Fraulein Jenny turned deadly pale. 
She looked so small, so fragile, so slight, so power- 
less, as she sat at the little marble table ; but 
Jacques, with a gloomy expression, muttered: “If 
she could trample me under her feet.” 

“ Oh ! you are still the same old spy, Jacques 
Leroux!” said Fraulein Jenny, holding out her 
delicate gloved hand to her companion. “ What 
gay times we used to have in the Rue du Rempart, 
didn’t we ?” 

“Yes, but it’s very lively here, too ; only things 
don’t go very well with me,” he answered ; “ I never 
have any money. You have hired the room next 
mine, Fraulein Jenny. • But you so seldom come 
there. Is Count Leuthold Kopa, in whose family 


134 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


you are governess, very rich, Mademoiselle? And 
charitable ? Perhaps I might induce him to give 
me some help. But you must first say a good word 
forme. You know, Mademoiselle Jeanne, old friends 
ought to help each other.” 

Fraulein Jenny looked very grave. “ Listen to 
me, Jacques,” said she. “ Count Leuthold Kopa is 
a miser. I will provide for your support.” And 
she drew out her purse, took from it one small bank- 
note, and pushed it eagerly across the table. “ When 
I receive my next quarter’s salary, I’ll come and 
see you.” 

‘Oh! you are a thousand times too kind, made- 
moiselle!” said the man. “ 1 thank you. But don’t 
forget your old acquaintance, or I shall have to seek 
you out, you know. So he is avaricious. How 
stupid that is in a brother of Monsieur Oswald, 
isn’t it? What happy days those were in the Rue 
du Rempart. I was an idle student, and lived on 
the ground floor, and you lived on the second story, 
and were such a merry grisette. And Monsieur 
Oswald was your betrothed husband. And now he 
proves to be the brother of this avaricious old 
count, and lives in the castle with you. It’s a per- 
fect romance.” 

Fraulein Jenny rose, paid her bill, and left the 
restaurant. Monsieur Jacques bowed politely to 
the waiter, and followed her with a drooping head. 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


135 


The crowd before the door was very great. 
Fraulein Jenny paused a moment, held her parasol 
before her eyes, and arranged her walking dress. 
She looked very beautiful. 

“ And you ?” said she, glancing at the French- 
man ; “ what are you doing in this city ? Are you 
studying?” 

He made a graceful bow. “ I do everything. I 
talk, I lounge about, I — am silent, I dance, and 
would even become your enemy, Mademoiselle, if it 
were worth while — for it would be a very hard 
task.” He rattled on with the volubility of a true 
Gascon. But Fraulein Jenny looked at him gravely. 
“ I would become your servant — for anything. 
Perhaps you have somebody to murder?” He 
laughed. 

Fraulein Jenny gazed at him with a strange, 
searching look, then nodded haughtily, and disap- 
peared in the crowd. 

“ Why did she look at me so?” thought the ex-valet, 
as he weighed the purse. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

The sun had tried to give the village, the fields, 
the park, and Castle Kopa itself a spring-like aspect, 
and for this purpose lent the yellow foliage a rosy 
hue and the sky a warm light. In the midst of the 
lovely weather, a shower of rain had drenched the 
trees and bushes, thus completing the illusion that 
summer had returned ; yet Count Leuthold almost 
regretted that he had come to the country. He had 
found nothing to improve, and thought of returning 
to the city again. Meantime, in his dignified but 
restless manner, he had driven over to a neighboring 
castle, with Countess Flora and his valet , to wander 
about the grounds, chat a little with the four count- 
esses, listen to a piece of music by Kontski, play a 
game of casino, and return home by moonlight. 

Countess Marie was beginning to feel a cheerless 
void in her own heart and her new life. When she 
lived with her mother at home she had been obliged 
to “ work to perform the various little tasks 
[136] 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


137 


which fill up the time. She had had her walks 
with her mother and an old priest, who came every 
evening, and a thousand little girlish occupations. 
Here, at her Uncle Leuthold’s, she had nothing to 
do, nothing to say, nothing to think, nothing to 
hope. It was a cheerless, empty life of luxury, for 
which it was needlul that one should be educated. 
Her rooms at Castle Kopa and in the city palace 
were really prison cells, in which ennui held her 
bound. She had nothing to do, was not permitted 
to do anything — and her simple fancy-work had 
lost all charm for her. 

But the castle garden was still beautiful, and the 
air to-day as warm as spring. She would go down. 
But she had a strange feeling when she was in the 
park alone. She hated Count Oswald, and Count 
Oswald also liked to walk in the park. Now, how- 
ever, she had sat for half an hour at her window, 
looking over the avenues, without even catching a 
glimpse of him. He did not drive out with Count 
Leuthold and Flora, but possibly had shouldered his 
gun and gone to shoot partridges. So Countess 
Marie, in her Havana brown dress, went down the 
corridor, pausing at one window after another, and 
thinking how brightly the sun was setting, and 
then glided down the staircase and entered the 
long, wide avenue of poplars, whose leaves fluttered 


138 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


slowly from the trees, or lay in heaps on the 
ground. 

But Countess Marie was not at ease amid all this 
beauty. She did not feel as happy and light- 
hearted as of old. During the last few months 
everything had seemed to grow grander and colder. 
She tried to hum, and her voice died away. It was 
strange. The ruddy evening light, which streamed 
into the corridor, seemed as if it were a servant ol 
Count Oswald, who always stood before her as her 
patron. He had often come up the stairs she was 
descending. He might be somewhere in the park, 
might be wandering over the fields. Oh ! Countess 
Marie undoubtedly hated him very bitterly, for she 
saw and thought of him everywhere; he made 
everything seem strange, unfriendly, hostile. And 
when she looked up, there he stood ! Yes. He was 
standing in the little, round, open wooden temple, 
that looked like a huge mushroom, gazing at her, 
and pulling his moustache. As usual, he leaned 
idly against one of the wooden columns ; no, not as 
usual. He was graver, his face wore a different 
expression ; he bowed in silence, and did not even 
smile. 

Countess Marie had paused before a small pool of 
water, that separated her from the temple and was 
impassible. Now she turned to go back, but 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


139 


Oswald said: “The puddle is not much for a man, 
cousin. Wait/’ 

She waited, gazing down into the dirty water. 
He stepped forward, raised her in his arms like a 
child and lifted her from the ground. 

She tried to say something, but only stammered 
“ Cousin,” and then threw her arm around his neck 
and allowed him to carry her into the temple, where 
he put her down. 

“ There,” said he, and then paused again. “You 
ventured to come out,” he added. 

“ I did not think it was so wet,” she said, shaking 
her dress. “ There is a cold wind blowing, too. 
But is the western sky usually so deep a crimson at 
sunset?” 

“ Yes, it is like a smiling farewell from autumn, 
on whose cheek a tear still glitters. Enjoy the 
beauty, Marie ; I will go into the fields,” said Count 
Oswald, gently. 

She looked earnestly at him. “ And why ? ,f she 
asked, in a tremulous voice. She felt so sorry for 
him at that moment. She had been foolish to hate 
him so bitterly, and show this hatred so plainly. 
She had often reproached herself for it of late. 
And yet, only two minutes before, she had been 
foolish enough to wish to reject his aid. She would 
be kind and cordial to him ; cordial as beseemed 
relatives who had never injured each other and 


140 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


wished each other no harm. He had spoken so 
gently and wanted to leave her. So she asked, with 
a smile, “ Why?” Her smiles were so rare, that, 
when they did come, they transfigured her whole 
face. 

“ Because you do not like my society, cousin,” he 
answered, quietly. 

“Oh ! that is only in your imagination, Oswald,” 
she said, hastily. She had been unwarrantably 
harsh for a long time, and wanted to put an end to 
this state of affairs ; but it was a difficult task. “ I 
don’t understand how to show my feelings, and am 
often misunderstood. Forgive me if I have treated 
you unkindly.” And she held out her hand, with a 
frank, honest glance. She had often intended to 
say this, and been irritated to defiance again as soon 
as he addressed her in his careless, frivolous fashion. 
To-day, however, he was so sad, so gentle, that all 
her hatred melted like snow. 

He cast a startled almost timid glance at her, and 
fairly gasped for breath. He heard a voice that 
sounded very different from her usual tone, and saw 
her, looking more beautiful than ever, smiling, smil- 
ing at him. “Oh!” said he to himself, “is this a 
dream?” Then his heart, which had swelled with 
joy, suddenly contracted with a vague terror. 
“ You are in a very cordial mood to-day, cousin !’* 
said he, trying to smile. 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


141 


She turned away. “ Ah ! you are unkind ; can 
you not forgive?” she asked, pouting. 

His face suddenly altered strangely. The dark- 
ness had increased ; only the topmost summits of 
the trees still glowed with a crimson light, and the 
park had grown damp and chilly. Everything 
around the little temple was so still and silent that 
he could almost hear his own thoughts, and they 
suddenly confused him. “Oh! Cousin Marie,” he 
cried, “what does this mean? You no longer hate 
me. Oh ! God, do not speak so ; treat me as you 
have always done, I implore you ; be harsh, avoid 
me, I implore you ; do you hear ?” 

She gazed at him in terror. Had he gone mad? 
But no madness looked forth from his eyes ; only a 
strange despair, a dread of this new happiness. ‘‘I 
implore you,” he repeated. “ For, if you are kind, 
what will happen? Do you not know that I love 
you? Oh! do not interrupt me; I must tell you, 
that you may avoid, shun me. Yes, I love you, you 
alone, Marie ; deeply, unutterably. It is a terrible, 
unwarrantable tiling. For my love, Marie, offered 
to a girl like you, is an insult, a disgrace. I am not 
good, not free. I wear shameful fetters, and may 
not love ; if I do, it is blasphemy — a sin against the 
woman I love, and a dishonor to my past. Ah ! do 
not be frightened, do not be angry with me. 1 must 
tell you this; I am in a dilirium. Why did you 


142 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


speak to me so kindly, smile upon me, give me your 
hand ; now, now, when 1 needed your hatred, your 
scorn, your pride, that 1 might remain strong and 
defiant. Your kindness has made me weak, power- 
less, timid. I love you ; yes, yes. Ah ! now you 
will no longer be friendly, for you do not love me. 
And that is well, that is fortunate, for I am not 
worthy of being loved. I could never give you 
happiness, my little proud darling; only misery and 
conflict. How beautiful, how good you are, Marie, 
and how I love you ! There, now you know, you 
must hate me. Farewell, farewell, Marie. Do not 
be angry — my heart aches so. Farewell !” 

He disappeared in the gathering dusk of the 
gloomy park. Countess Marie stood leaning against 
one of the columns of the temple, gazing after him ; 
the crimson light varnished from the tree-tops; 
the gray pools seemed to form the whole atmos- 
phere. “ Oh !” she thought, gasping for breath, “ I 
have been dreaming.” 

* * * * * * 

“ The whole sky already looks so dark ; onl} r far 
down near the horizon is a strip of red, as red as 
fire,” said Mademoiselle Rose, as if to herself. Then 
she looked at Fraulein Jenny, who was standing on 
the terrace, plucking some withered leaves from a 
plant that grew in a stone urn. “ Oh ! Fraulein 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


143 


Jenny,” said she, “would you like to see something 
beautiful ?” 

“What is it?” asked Fraulein Jenny, looking up. 

“ Make haste and go up stairs, Fraulein,” said 
Rose, in her sweetest French. “Then open the 
door that leads into the dining-hall.” 

“ And then ?” 

“ Then go through the dining-hall and open the 
door that leads into the coffee-room.” 

“ And then ?” 

“ Then go to the window.” 

“And there?” 

“ There you will see.” 



CHAPTER XV. 

The window of the coffee-room overlooked the 
little temple. Countess Marie stood leaning, almost 
clinging to one of the pillars, as if shrinking from 
Count Oswald, who, with clasped hands, was kneel- 
ing at her feet. 

Fraulein Jenny also ventured out into the wet 
park, recklessly dragging her dress through the 
puddles. 

* ***** 

A strange feeling urged her on, a feeling like 
madness, or some vague dream. She could not 
think soberly; there was a chaos of anger, fear, and 
passion in her brain, and ere this chaos had left her 
mind clear, she stood before Countess Marie. 

The latter had raised her dress, and was in the 
act of springing across the wide puddle before the 
wooden temple, when the governess suddenly ap- 
peared. Fraulein Jenny had no cloak, her skirts 
were draggled with water, and her hair tossed by 
the wind. 

[i44] 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


145 


This was the guise in which the little, pale, elf- 
like creature stood before her. 

“ Ah ! 1 am glad you have come,” said Countess 
Marie, holding out her hand. “ How fortunate. 
You will help me over this puddle, won’t you?” 

But Fraulein Jenny, instead of taking her hand, 
walked straight through the pool to the young girl’s 
side. The trees around were already shrouded by 
damp, gloomy shadows, and the last pale gray light 
vanished from the sky. A chilly wind made the 
leaves rustle in the darkness, and the two girls saw 
only the outlines of each other’s figures. 

“ One moment! ” said Fraulein Jenny, in a harsh, 
dissonant, unnatural tone, a tone Countess Marie 
had never before heard from her lips. “One mo- 
ment, Countess. Be kind enough to give me two 
words.” 

Countess Marie looked at her in surprise. “Two 
words. Oh! yes; but here? Would it not be bet- 
ter for us to go to the castle, Fraulein ? ” 

“Two words — here. It would not be better to 
go to the castle,” repeated Fraulein Jenny, as if she 
were saying the words by rote, or wanted to re- 
member something. Brain and heart were still 
confused by the wild chaos of her thoughts. 

A sudden fear seized upon the young countess. 
She was scarcely conscious of Fraulein Jenny’s ob- 
ject, but it seemed as if what she was about to hear 


146 


THE HONOR OF THE HEARt. 


had some connection with what she had already 
heard. She involuntarily drew back from the fair- 
haired governess, for it seemed as if she were near 
some sharp weapon, whose blade glittered in the 
darkness. 

“ But — is — is it not cold here ?” she asked, trying 
to speak in her usual quiet tone, though it was per- 
haps a shade more haughty. 

“ No,” said Fraulein Jenny, and it seemed as if 
the two women had exchanged characters. “ Be 
kind enough, Countess, to answer my question 
here. Is Count Oswald your lover ? ” 

The question sounded as if it were uttered by a 
mad woman. Countess Marie did not answer imme- 
diately. 

Her astonishment had been transformed to indig- 
nation. She was silent. 

“ Oh ! she does not reply,” continued Fraulein 
Jenny, like a bodiless voice speaking in the dark- 
ness. “ But you must answer me, Countess. Does 
what I say seem strange ? Yes, you are angry, are 
you not ? But do not be so. I know that Count 
Oswald is — can be nothing to you. Do I not know 
that I only ask for my own peace of mind ? My 
heart is almost bursting, Countess. Do you know 
that Count Oswald is my betrothed husband? Ah ! 
now I have told you the secret which I would not 
have allowed a thousand tortures to force from me, 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


147 


and which no one must know. Do you see how 
great my anxiety and despair must be ? But con- 
sider, Rose told me that Oswald had made a declar- 
ation of love to you — in the corridor ! Is that prob- 
able? So soon after you first met. I knew she was 
lying. She hates me, and wants to make me angry. 

I know that, but when we are jealous, we don’t 
listen to reason. And so many other things hap- 
pened — and now, just now, I saw him kneeling 
before you. It was only an accident ; I only imag- 
ined it, for it was already dusk. Isn’t that so? But 
I thought 1 should go mad, Countess. I am ill. For- 
give me, and do not betray us or we are lost. Perhaps 
Oswald loves you. You are so beautiful, and, oh ! 
God, men are so inconstant. But you will always 
hate him, and that is well. You see he belongs to me, ( 
Countess.” Fraulein Jenny paused. 

“ Your betrothed husband ?” repeated the Count- 
ess Marie in a trembling voice ; an icy chill ran 
through her limbs and she leaned against one of the 
columns of the temple. 

“ Yes, he has been betrothed to me for a long time, 
two or three years, and I shall be his wife. But you 
came, and you were so beautiful, and you did not 
like him, nor he you, and that made me anxious, and 
then all this followed. When I did not know what 
to do, I said to myself, ‘ I will ask the Countess ; 
she will laugh, and my mind will be at rest for- 


148 


THE HONOR OP THE HEART. 


ever!' You are laughing 1 , are you not? Jealousy 
is such a strange feeling, but it makes one giddy — 

I — I have been scarcely able to breathe for the last 
fifteen minutes. My God, what more am I to say 
to you? I had so many things, and now 1 only 
know that you will speak one kind word. If I look 
at you, follow you in future, you will only think, 

‘ She is jealous again, poor thing.’ And you will 
soothe my fears, Countess. Ah ! I am sure you will. 

I have played a part so long for his sake. We have 
loved each other so fondly. You have never loved. 
How should you ? You are so young, so beautiful, 
so proud ; but if we poor girls, who stand alone in 
the world, love a man once, it is forever. We must 
do so that we may not lose all courage; Count 
Oswald is my future, my whole future. Some 
day God will bless you, and you will be happy, 
Countess — but you have not yet told me that I am 
foolish, that you forgive me, that you — that you do 
not love Oswald! — say so now!” Fraulein Jenny 
paused a moment, and gazed intently at the dark, 
motionless figure before her, while no sound was 
heard save the rustling of the wet leaves. Then she 
suddenly drew herself up and said, in a hoarse, shrill 
tone: “ What have you to do with him, Countess?” 

Countess Marie drew a long breath, and for the 
first time in her life a fierce conflict was raging in 
her proud, girlish heart. The predominant feelings 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


149 


were indignation and anger — anger against the 
woman before her, who had the right to love him, 
Count Oswald, her cousin. She did not know why 
she was so angry, or whether it was not more sor- 
row than indignation. Each word the governess 
uttered caused her bitter pain, as if it tore whole 
handfulls of budding spring blossoms from her 
heart, pitilessly, unsparingly. Her proud spirit 
rebelled. The Countess Marie was a noble girl, but 
no spark of compassion now glowed in her heart. 
She did not hear the anguish, only the presump- 
tuous words: “ He is my betrothed husband.” 

“ How can you venture to speak to me so, Frau- 
lein Jenny Lorm ?” she said, breathless with indigna- 
tion. “ You forget yourself.” 

“Oh, God, what have I done? Don’t you see I 
am in a fever of anxiety, that I am dying, that you 
must sooth me for the dear God’s sake ! Tell me 
that you have no understanding with Oswald.” 

“ I don’t understand you, I do not know what you 
want. You are dreaming or mad — ” 

“ Oh ! she will not answer,” gasped the gover- 
ness, fairly beside herself with rage, as she seized 
the young girl’s hand. “ So it is true ! So it is 
true !” she cried, in an undertone, with a fierce, terri- 
ble voice. “ You love each other ! Confess it.” 

“ Am I obliged to give you an account of my 
actions?” 


150 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


“ Yes, you are,” cried the governess, eagerly, 
drawing her fragile little figure up to its full height, 
and holding the struggling girl firmly by the arm. 
“ So you did not hear that he belongs to me, that I 
have a right to him, and that every woman who 
comes in my way, is a — oh ! you see I do not 
know what I am saying — but why did you urge me 
so far ! 1 must say, once for all, what has so long 

been seething within me. What do I care for you 
all ! There is a red mist before my eyes. There 
you stand talking about dignity, and whether you 
are accountable to me? Yes, for you are a great 
lady ! To be sure. And you are virtuous, and 
haughty, and beautiful, and pure as heaven itself ! 
And we — we are servants. Ever since we can 
remember we have been driven about from house 
to house among strangers: no mother has fondled 
us, no one has made the way soft and smooth to our 
feet. We met with naught save toil, insult, con- 
tempt, which we were expected to repay with ready 
service, smiles, and gentleness. 

“ And then people say, ‘They are only servants ! 
What are they worth? They run after a husband, 
a dowry, flirt with our brothers, the counts, and try 
to force themselves upon us. But often, countess, 
often our love is sincere, and we choose for the lord 
of our hearts not the man of rank and wealth, but 
the poorest, the most forsaken, that we may be poor 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


151 


with him, comfort and help him. So I loved Oswald, 
when he was poor, disinherited, deserted, and devot- 
ed my whole life to the task of serving him, making 
him happy, and removing every stone from his path. 
Imitate us in this for once, ladies ! Then a beautiful 
aristocratic lady comes, coquets with the man who 
belongs to me, wins him by her innocent, artless 
ways, and — it is simply infamous! Do you hear? 
Oh! you can drive me away from here, of course — 
yet no, you cannot ; for Oswald must follow me — 
he belongs to me, do you hear? To me ! to me! 
You can only drive me away by shaking the house, 
as it now stands, to its foundations ; and if you do 
that, any one can point at you and say: ‘Look at 
that woman ; she could not get rid of her rival ex- 
cept by removing her from her path ! She had no 
beauty, no love, to win the victory, so used force.’ 
Ha ! ha ! You see that you are not yet sole mistress 
here, countess.” 

“ My rival ! ” repeated Countess Marie, in an 
angry, scornful, yet tremulous tone. 

“ Yes, I said so, and you are, or you would have 
answered me, cheered me, and all would have been 
well. Oswald loves you, and you him ! I knew it 
when 1 came here, but I was weak and wanted to 
be comforted. Forget the dream, I tell you, he be- 
longs to me !” 

“To you!” cried Countess Marie, and her pride, 


152 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


her secret love, and bitter pain all found utterance 
in the words. “And since when has a man be- 
longed to a woman against his will? Do you be- 
lieve Count Oswald loves you ? Do you think he 
will ever love a woman who claims his heart as a 
piece of property she could purchase? Sacrifice, 
devotion ! They make the giver happier than the 
receiver. Who thinks of demanding payment for 
joy? I think, even if we serve a man all our lives, 
we have no right to his love, and the service renders 
us still more happy than it does him. Could we live 
without him ? Oh ! yes, I know now what it is to 
love. Yours is only selfishness, you wicked woman ! 
And if I loved him, I would do it to save him — from 
you.” 

“ Do you love him ?” 

“And if I did?” 

This one hour had transformed Countess Marie 
into a woman. In the grief and horror inspired by 
the governess’ words, “ He belongs to me,” she had 
gained a knowledge of herself and the love she had 
so long unconsciously concealed in her heart. 

Fraulein Jenny trembled from head to foot. Her 
fingers twitched with a murderous desire, then she 
fell at the young countess’ feet, as if utterly 
crushed. “Oh! it is not possible that you can be 
so wicked, so heartless? Do you not hear? You 
are still so young ! I have confessed all, and 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


153 


have no love but him. You will often be loved. 
You are just entering life. But I? From whom 
could I ask love if not from him? You have never 
wept for him. You don’t know what it is. And 
perhaps he does not love you ; it was only a fancy 
— such as he felt for me. That is the way with 
men. Leave me ! Oh, God ! oh, God ! don’t you 
see that I no longer know what I am doing — that I 
might do you some harm ? Oh !” 

Countess Marie hastily burst away, and, with a 
low cry, ran out into the darkness and fled toward 
the castle. 

Fraulein Jenny tottered up and clung to a pillar, 
where she stood as if lifeless, while the damp, chill 
night air blew over her. She shed no tears, but 
often uttered a low moan, and, after a long, long 
time the thought of her first meeting with Oswald 
recurred to her mind. It was on Sunday, and she 
had worn a blue veil that floated in the summer 
breeze. 



CHAPTER XVT. 

The little fair-haired factory girl must have had 
numerous holidays at this time, for one Sunday she 
even came to her room before dark. In the day- 
time Herr Ilde’s house was always remarkably quiet 
and lonely. All his lodgers seemed to sleep like 
owls, and on Sunday even the shop was closed like 
a coffin. Herr Idle spent that day in solitude, per- 
haps even in prayer. These prayers, however, 
always seemed to be accompanied by sacrifices, for 
the little chimney which projected from the back 
shop sent forth a thick, black column of smoke. If 
Herr llde did not offer sacrifices, perhaps he was an 
alchemist. 

To-day the sun cast its changeful rays full into 
the most secluded, darkest dens in the house. 

Fraulein Lina was no better dressed than usual ; 
her attire was as old, as shabby, as dark as ever, 
but when she removed her hat her hair glittered 
like gold. She approached the locked door that 
[H4] 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


155 


opened into the next room, and knocked. “ Are 
you there?” she asked. “Answer, Jacques! I 
know you want to play the spy! Come!” She 
shook the handle. 

A low grumble was heard at the other door, 
which now sprang open of its own accord, reveal- 
ing Monsieur Jacques, who stood on the threshold 
with an air of mingled embarrassment and effront- 
ery. She handed him a packet of money. “ There ; 
you need not listen when I pay you, animal /” 

He took the money, muttered a few meaningless 
words in French, and walked out of the room, 
whistling. Fraulein Jenny left the door open, and 
drew from her pocket a scrap of paper with a few 
words scrawled upon it, saying, “ He wants to see 
me ; what can it mean 1” 

She loved Count Oswald so fondly that she often 
hoped he would throw his arm around her and say, 
“ Jeanne, all sorrow is over ; happiness has come.” 

At other times she hated him so bitterly that she 
thought, “ He has betrayed, abandoned me, and I 
will crush him like a worm.” 

This time he had requested an interview, and she 
was waiting for him. She expected happiness or 
treachery. Pale and very calm, she leaned against 
the window of the quiet, sunny room. 

Count Oswald came. He wore his ordinary 
dress, for the costume of a fashionable man does 


156 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


not attract so much attention in an out-of-the-way 
quarter as that of an elegant woman. He looked 
grave, pale, and remarkably handsome. 

Fraulein Jenny, with her gleaming hair, which 
curled in little feathery rings, smilingly approached 
and took his hand. 

“ You have something to tell me, Oswald, on this 
lovely day. Oh ! if we could only take an excur- 
sion, as we used to do in Paris, to Romainville, or 
Auteuil, or anywhere. How beautiful the weather 
has been ever since we returned to the city. Have 
you anything pleasant to say to me, Bibi ?” 

He let his hands remain in hers, and bent toward 
her. At that moment she loved him inexpressibly ; 
never had she thought him so handsome. 

“ Let me go away, Jeanne,” said he. “ Only for a 
month — a fortnight. I cannot endure it here.” He 
paused. 

There were many changing emotionsin her mind 
as she gazed at him, still with a smile, though it was 
somewhat forced. She seemed to be searching his 
very soul. But she only said, gently, “ You want 
to go away. Why? Where?” 

The questions were perfectly simple and natural, 
yet he could not answer immediately. 

“ Where?” he repeated. “ Anywhere;” and then 
relapsed into silence, and gazed steadily into va- 
cancy. 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


157 


“ And why ?” she asked again. 

‘Why? How childish you are! 1 need change 
of air. It is often suffocating to men to live among 
women. Don’t you understand that? Mon Dieu ! 
I belong to you ; we shall be happy. I know all 
you want to say ; but I — 1 can’t endure it here. I’m 
not a slave or a child.” His voice grew louder. 
a I have no peace. I must get a breath of the sea 
air. I only wanted to tell you that I was going to 
take a little journey. You needn’t wonder and ask 
questions about it.” 

His excitement disappeared, and he smiled his old 
smile. 

Fraulein Jenny patted his hand. “ I understand 
you. Yes, you need the change. You men have 
not the patience of women. And then — then per- 
haps you have had a little flirtation with Countess 
Marie, and without any serious intentions, made the 
poor thing love you, and now want to be on less 
familiar terms by going away. Is it so? Then 1 
thank you.” 

He looked at her with the beautiful eyes that 
always made her heart swell. “ A flirtation !” 

“ Yes. Don’t be troubled. She told me so her- 
self. And you want to go away for a time. Very 
well! I will be here at my post. It is better so. 
I really don’t believe you love her, and are trying 
to forget her ; but our position here is so unbearable, 


158 


THU HONOR OF THE HEART. 


that it will be best to make a change for a few 
weeks. We can’t tell even how much one week 
may accomplish.” She paused, and looked tenderly 
at him. 

“ Yes,” he said ; “ how kind and sensible you are, 
Jeanne.” 

She stooped and kissed his hand. “Yes, only be 
good and contented. Enjoy your journey, and 
believe that all will yet be well.” 

At this moment she was a true woman, full of 
love, gentleness, humility, and trust, and he thought, 
mournfully, “Why can I no longer love her?” 
Poor girl ! He had just found his t ( rue love. 

She still talked on, standing at the window in the 
bright sunlight. Then they took leave of each 
other, but did not leave the house together. Count 
Oswald went first, and Fraulein Jenny waited. As 
she leaned against the window in dull, quiet sub- 
mission, she struggled wearily with a thought that 
rose in her heart : “ He is going ! But alone? Per- 
haps with her!” Her face crimsoned. “Perhaps 
it is all treachery and falsehood !” 

She turned, turned away from the sunlight toward 
the dusky interior of the room with a face that was 
not unfamiliar to these old walls. If he has deceived 
her, if he loves Countess Marie, he has no mercy to 
expect from her. 

She might now leave the room and the house, 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


159 


but this sudden, monstrous, terrible idea chained 
her to the spot. 

She waited. For what? The door leading into 
the next room stood open. 

Often joyous groups of workmen, or servant 
girls with their lovers emerged from the dirty side 
alleys into the wider streets, but the person she 
eagerly expected did not appear. At last she hast- 
ily put on her hat and threw her shawl around her 
shoulders. “ Bah !” she exclaimed, glancing toward 
the next room, and then left the house without 
waiting for the French adventurer. But her face 
wore the same expression which had made the 
latter mutter, “Why did she look at me so 
strangely ?” 



CHAPTER XVII. 

It is not so easy a matter for a Count Oswald to 
journey into the world. He must have his trunks 
packed, say to his brother, “ I am going to travel — 
for a few weeks. To Florence, or somewhere;” 
and he must give some reason. Count Leuthold 
replied, “ Ah! but you can’t go fora week; there is 
to be a hunt.” 

“ But—” 

“ Oh ! you have no business at Florence. Do 
you mean to leave me to do the honors of the hunt 
alone?” 

But Count Oswald was resolute, and one day 
bade adieu to the different members of the family. 
He entered Countess Marie’s boudoir . 

She had been sitting at a work-table, but a book 
was lying among the embroidery. The room was 
flooded with a cool, clear light. When Count 
Oswald entered, the young girl hastily rose and 
advanced two or three steps toward him. “ Oh ! 
fi6o]. 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


161 


here you are at last !” she cried. “ I have been 
expecting you, Oswald. Yesterday and the day 
before.” 

“ Did you know I was going away?” said he. 

“ I heard so. Why are you going, and where ?” 
The quiet, proud girl seemed wholly changed. 
Her voice again mirrored her soul, and this soul 
seemed to embrace Oswald like a loving, anxious 
arm. 

“ I am going to Italy, as soon as the hunt at Castle 
Kopa is over ; we shall go there day after to-mor- 
row, and I shall set out on my journey three or four 
days later. But I wanted to bid you farewell, here 
in the privacy of home ; for at Castle Kopa, as lady 
of the house, your attention will be claimed by the 
guests.” 

“ You are really going ? And why?” 

He was silent. She was now seated on the sofa, 
and he in an arm-chair beside it. The room was 
very bright. Marie wore a light silk dress, and her 
hair was somewhat disordered. 

“Yes,” she repeated, “why? Have you any 
business? does anything call you there?” 

“ No,” he said, at last, with a certain emphasis. 
“ Something drives me away.” 

“Ah!” she replied. “Can you tell what it is? 
Have I anything? — ” 

She was entirely unlike her usual self. All her 


162 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


composure and quiet reserve had been transformed 
into a strange resolution. She looked brighter than 
in former days, but the bright glance was accom- 
panied by a sort of soft shadow, like a cloud over 
the sun, and she seemed all the more beautiful. 

Ever since her conversation with the governess, 
Countess Marie had known that she loved Oswald. 
She loved him, and was aware that Jenny was strug- 
gling and weeping for him, that she intended to tear 
him from her, and the fear of losing him made her 
feel the power and reality of the strongest of all 
passions. The pride of her race strengthened her 
heart to form a noble resolution. 

If the honor of a man’s heart consists in making 
her whom he loves happy, the honor of a woman’s 
consist in being loved by the man she can render 
happy. 

Ever since the scene with Fraulein Jenny, Count 
Oswald had been all in all to Countess Marie. She 
had recognized her future, her happiness, and her 
proper course ; she had been awakened to her mis- 
sion; to love and give happiness. 

“ Am I the cause ?” she asked. 

“ Yes,” said Count Oswald. 

“You are going away because you love me?” 
Her smile was like sunlight. 

“Yes,” replied Count Oswald, breathlessly, with 
a fierce pang at his heart. 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


163 


“ Only for that ?” she said, smiling, while her 
heart seemed to speak from the laughing lips. 
Then a blush slowly crimsoned her cheek, and her 
eyes drooped. 

The room in which they sat was a very beautiful 
one, with yellow tapestry and sea-green furniture. 
Out of doors, the reddish light of autumn fell upon 
the courtyard, where some nut trees stood ; the 
stamping of a horse sometimes echoed from the 
stable ; everything else was still. “ Only for that ?” 
she had said. There was a world of meaning in the 
words. Count Oswald dared not think what they 
might imply. His heart began to beat more quickly 
and he forced himself to say, in a thick, hurried 
tone, “Yes. Because I love you, cousin, and no 
longer belong to myself, but to my betrothed 
bride.” 

“ A betrothed bride !” 

“ Yes, a betrothed bride, who has a right to me. 
You know this?” 

“ I know all.” 

It is a moment when he is not surprised, asks no 
questions. There are times when lovers are omnis- 
cient. 

“All?” he repeated. “No. Perhaps you know 
that I was a careless officer. What was my name to 
me? A burden. Wealth? An evil. Honor? To 
deceive no one. Life? To be gay — gay in any 


164 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


way. We all lead such lives. Then I ran in debt, 
pledged wealth, name, and duty, and one day stood 
alone in the world. Nothing remained except 
cheerful spirits — and they were to be found in 
Paris. And in the midst of that wild life I found 
love, the love of Jeanne Lorm. Do you know that? 
Yes, 1 see you do. Very well. We were betrothed 
to each other. She wished, in woman’s fashion, 
to be happy as my wife, even though I was a beg- 
gar, for she really loved me. 1 laughed at the idea, 
and replied: ‘That would be utter misery, child, 
and I could not endure it.’ Then she formed a 
plan. She came here and played a very clever part, 
which effected a reconciliation between me and my 
brother. After a few months she had so far won 
the latter’s heart that she could venture to hope 
that nothing would stand in the way of our ‘ hap- 
piness.’ Then you came, cousin. What shall I say 
to you ? I begin to see that 1 had never loved be- 
fore.” 

Fraulein Jenny ! Where was she when Count 
Oswald uttered these words ? If she had heard 
them, they would have been her death. A woman’s 
death is not like a man’s ; her heart always dies 
first. A woman’s bod) 7 is only a husk ; the slave, or 
the temple, or the tyrant of her heart — never herself. 
Ave femina . 

“ That I had never loved,” Count Oswald con- 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


165 


tinued. “ Then I realized that 1 loved you, my 
proud, defiant darling, and I told you so. But 
Jeanne saw this, too, came to me and said, “You 
belong to me ! ’ ” 

Countess Marie was silent. She only smiled. 

“She said, ‘You belong to me!' And added : 
‘ Do you know the honor of the heart?’ Then I 
resolved to fly, to fly from you, but — from her also. 
I cannot love her, even if all my ancestors stood be- 
fore me ready to destroy my escutcheon. I cannot ! 
I will go away. I shall not be happy, but neither 
can I become utterly miserable for the sake of an 
hour of gayety, already atoned for by months of 
constraint. I have never loved her; I did not 
know what the feeling was. A fiery atmosphere 
always surrounded us. I should murder her if I 
remained here. And now farewell, cousin." 

He tried to rise — she knew all. But her hand 
rested on his arm and gently detained him. “ You 
will come back again ? " she said, in a low, breath- 
less tone. He gazed at her long and earnestly ; a 
livid pallor overspread his handsome face. 

“ Never ! " said he. 

“ Come back to her, I mean." 

“ Never ! " 

She threw her arm around his neck like a child. 
“ Then take me with you, Cousin Oswald." 

He gazed at her like a madman. 


166 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


“ Yes, for I love you, Oswald. I have felt it from 
the first moment ; dreaded it, and tried to shrink 
from you. But now ” 

“ Marie ! ” 

“ Yes. And the honor of your heart has nothing 
to say against it. I have an honor, too ! I am a 
woman, 1 love you, we are both young and free. I 
would gladly be yours forever. My honor consists 
in not letting you fall into the power of a person 
who would make you unhappy. For I love you, 
and you return my love. If you wanted to keep 
Jeanne and make her happy, ought I to say a word 
against it? It would be horrible. But you wish to 
fly from her and me also. She will be miserable, 
and — ” 

“ And you — you, too, Marie ? ” 

She bent her head, and the next instant was 
clasped in his arms. 

“ But, if I leave this place forever, I shall be 
poor. Poverty, Marie — ” 

She smiled. “ I am accustomed to it.” 

“You only pity me, do you not?” he asked, 
faintly, like a man who had suddenly been borne on 
radiant clouds into a Paradise. 

“ No, Oswald, God forgive me, I have loved you 
from the first hour.” 

* * * * * * 

Love, even in its greatest caution, is always blind. 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


167 


To conceal or be false to a real affection is as hard 
a task as to weave intrigues in heaven. It is an im- 
possibility. Only calculating, selfish love deceives 
and is deceived. 

Count Oswald and Countess Marie were as quiet, 
as prudent as possible. Count Oswald continued his 
preparation for his journey, which he had deferred 
until after the hunting party. 

The leaves fluttered silently from the trees, under 
the autumn breeze that blew from h cloudy sky ; 
the late flowers showed their dull hues ; everything 
wore its usual aspect. Count Leuthold was impor- 
tant, Count Oswald quiet, pleasant, and smiling ; 
Countess Marie unchanged; yet one day Fraulein 
Jenny suddenly said to herself, “ Oswald is going 
away — from her whom he had begun to love, and 
he is happy.” 

For that day he had laughed, laughed at a peas- 
ant child who had met him at the garden gate and 
made him some droll, childish answer. Really 
laughed, and anything can be feigned more easily 
than a long, loud, joyous, merry fit of laughter, 
unless it comes from the heart. 

“ So he is happy ! And she is so good, so kind to 
everyone; she is my forgiving friend, tries to amuse 
Count Leuthold, and is fairly radiant with joy. 
Her eyes always sparkle whenever she comes 
among us: so they are happy ; they—” 


168 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


The terrible thought that had lurked in her mind 
for days suddenly appeared before Fraulein Jenny 
in tangible form : “ They will go away together.” 

“ From that moment they have seemed completely 
transformed ; gayer, more cheerful than ever ; smil- 
ing at everything and noticing nothing. They 
mean to go away together.” 

With this certainty a terrible calmness came over 
her. The greatest fury and despair cloak them- 
selves in apparent repose, a terrible, horrible repose ; 
a quietude that exists only in the deepest recesses of 
human life. “If she should die!” Fraulein Jenny 
said to herself one evening in her room. 

Snow clouds darkened the air, forming a dim 
gray twilight. The whole city seemed oppressed. 
She was standing before her bureau, one drawer of 
which she had opened, and her hand rested upon a 
little packet. “ If she should die !” 

Fraulein Jenny had some poison in a little green 
box, wrapped in blotting paper. She need only 
strew a little in a cup, and the innocent drink would 
become a death potion. It was an easy thing to do. 

One day the little governess, humming a tune, 
went into the dining-room where the tea and coffee 
cups, according to an old custom in the castle, were 
kept in a buffet. Fraulein Jenny smiled as she 
hummed. Dear me, she would not have done any- 
body harm, but for a long time she had felt so 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


169 


strangely oppressed it seemed as if she had just 
uttered a shriek, that some one must heed. She 
could not have done anyone harm. But if Countess 
Marie should die now ! 

She opened the old-fashioned buffet , looked at the 
cups with their bright paintings in enamel and put 
them back again. Each member of the family had 
a certain cup. It was a time when nobody was at 
home except herself and the servants. She had 
had a headache, and Countess Flora had gone in the 
carriage to the park, where the band was playing. 

She put the cups back again and slowly returned 
to her room. At the door she hesitated, but did 
not go back ; on the contrary she moved along the 
corridors to her own apartment. Here she again 
paused, and seemed inclined to retrace her steps. 
She could not have examined the cups sufficiently. 

She walked hastily back, but at the door of the 
dining-room met Rose, who was just coming out. 
A smile flitted over the maid’s pretty brunette face, 
she gave some reason for her presence in the dining- 
room, and then went down stairs in her neat gray 
dress, smoothing the rebelious waves of hair from 
her southern face. 

Fraulein Jenny entered the dining-room, went to 
the buffet , and counted six, seven little cups. She 
seemed to miss one, for she searched eagerly, first 
with her eye and then with her hand ; the delicate 


170 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


china rattled. And it had just been there, a cup 
with the portrait of Cardinal Richelieu, from which 
Countess Marie always took her coffee. It had dis- 
appeared within the last five minutes. Who had 
been here ? Rose ! 

Fraulein Jenny leaned her elbows on the buffet 
and rested her burning head on her hands, while 
her heart throbbed loudly. The cup had remained 
empty. That was fortunate. But Rose had taken 
it away. Rose was an enemy, and this enemy had 
suspicions. 

“Where can she have put the cup?” Fraulein 
Jenny said to herself, with a throbbing heart and 
bewildered brain. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

Fifteen minutes, half an hour elapsed. The cold 
red autumnal sunlight still shone into the great 
lonely palace, and Fraulein Jenny still leaned upon 
the buffet. By degrees her thoughts grew clearer. 
Her hatred, her despair, her fixed idea: if Countess 
Marie were no longer in my way ! still remained ; 
but in this quarter of an hour, when she felt that 
she had a dangerous enemy, the despair had already 
assumed the form of calculation and cunning. Rose 
was watching her. If she had carried out her 
intention in regard to the cup she would now have 
been betrayed and delivered up to justice. She 
could do nothing, undertake nothing in this house, 
lor the maid in her malice watched everything, and 
wanted to crush her as soon as she obtained an 
opportunity. But she would yet revenge herself, 
and then be happy. Happy ! People believe in 
happiness, even when their hands are stained with 
sin ; would they commit crimes otherwise ? 

For weeks Fraulein Jenny had found her burden 
unendurable. Daily, hourly her heart was full of 

P7i] 


172 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


care, anger, love, or fear, and she was still forced 
to seem a stranger to the man, who as she said, 
belonged to her. 

And now, when everything was prepared for his 
departure came the certainty that he had deceived 
her, shamelessly, pitilessly deceived her, and was 
about to fly with Countess Marie from her. In the 
first tumult of rage and despair, she had tried to 
seize upon a terrible expedient, a terrible ven- 
geance. But before she could prepare the cup, 
she had been warned by the watchful, awkward, 
over-hasty enemy who had betrayed herself too 
soon. 

The next day every one in the palace knew that 
Mademoiselle Rose had been dismissed, and would 
leave at once. And so it proved. 

Mademoiselle Rose had gone to Countess Marie’s 
room, as usual, to dress her hair, came out pale with 
rage, and retired to her own chamber to pack her 
trunks. During the young girl’s toilet the maid 
had turned the conversation on the governess’ jeal- 
ousy and thirst for revenge, and Countess Marie, 
on her own authority, had requested the intriguing 
informer to leave the house at once. 

Rose, with a horrible grimace, left the room and 
then gayly bid farewell to all in the servant’s hall, 
saying that she had asked for her discharge because 
she wanted to visit a sick aunt. Yes, and she had 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


173 


been very lively and affable. Farewells in the ser- 
vants' hall of a great house are never sad. The 
acacias in the courtyard cast changeful shadows 
into the room, the pictures on the walls represent 
proud generals and haughty dames in ancient cos- 
tumes, the neighing of the horses in the stables 
makes daily music, yet the servants’ hall is never a 
home, even if the happiest years have been spent 
there. People leave it without regret, and are 
speedily forgotten, for the servants’ hall in great 
houses have always witnessed so much envy, gossip, 
calumny, malice, and helpless wrath, that no home- 
like feeling can exist within their walls, pleasant and 
comfortable as they may seem. In the middle of 
the bright, sunny autumn afternoon, Rose left the 
house. A hack was waiting at the entrance, two 
footmen carried down her two trunks, a light 
breeze was whirling the withered leaves around the 
courtyard. Rose took a smiling farewell of Frau- 
lein Jenny, and her eyes said to the little governess : 
“ I shall remain close by. I am being sent away 
for the service 1 was going to render against you, 
but I have you in my grasp. Try anything in .the 
house, and I will say it was you. I know you; I 
know your thoughts, and that in your mad love you 
are capable of anything, as I am in my revenge. I 
hate you.” 

Then Mademoiselle Rose went down the steps and 


174 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


gave a female servant a long, affectionate kiss, as if 
she wanted to get rid of some of her venom. Then 
the great door closed with a dull sound like a coffin 
lid, and the carriage rolled away. 

Fraulein Jenny had been ill for two days, so 
Countess Flora was at liberty and allowed to go 
with Countess Marie to visit old Countess Rern- 
hagen. Countess Marie went to see the old lady 
very often. 

“She has told her all!” Fraulein Jenny said to 
herself, as she stood behind the autumn flowers that 
bloomed on her window sill. “ And the old fool is 
happy over my secret. They are all against me. 
All. And he!” Fraulein Jenny was really ill. She 
said she had a slight attack of fever, and her dinner 
was sent to her room. She sat in a wrapper all day 
long and was very weak, so weak that she often lay 
on the couch for several minutes with her eyes, 
closed and her head resting on her hand. 

She was to lose all. Spite of her poverty she had 
long been hopeful and happy in her wild, humble 
love. Then she had undertaken a difficult task. 
She had devoted her whole life to the happiness of 
her lover, in whom she expected to find her own. 
And now, now she was to lose all, her heart was to 
be completely beggared. Another was to reap the 
happiness which she had sowed, which belonged to 
her. Ah, his heart was this rival’s — she could not 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


175 


change, undo that. But he himself! How was she 
to prevent his treachery? She was defenceless. 
She would go to Count Leuthold and confess all. 
What would be the consequences ? Would she have 
justice done her? The old count would rejoice to 
see a marriage between Oswald and Marie. And 
she would simply be sent away. For one wild 
moment she thought of bewitching the old count 
into marrying her himself ; selfish old counts are so 
easily induced to make an unequal match, if people 
feign sincere love for them. But then, Oswald and 
Marie would be free, free ! 

People who write novels strive to account for a 
human being's fall into sin by a long course of 
degradation. But man never needs to sink to evil. 
The human heart is always on the verge of crime 
when it is absorbed in its own reveries, and sud- 
denly abandoned by the love that alone raises us to 
higher things. 

At such times it is like a child deserted by a cruel 
mother at night in a raging storm, which totters 
weeping on till it falls into a river. 

Fraulein Jenny had never been really wicked. 
She had been poor, unloved, left to herself. As a 
girl at boarding school, where she was educated for 
a teacher, she became false and deceitful. Then she 
went among strangers, ready to serve, defiant, 
smiling, hopeless. At this time she met Count 


176 


THE HONOR OE THE HEART. 


Oswald. He lived the gay, careless life of a student, 
she found her first joy, her first love, her first hope, 
all in him, and gave him her soul forever. 

Then she had manoeuvred, been silent, talked, 
hoped, struggled for him. Poor woman ! 

And new came this beautiful, haughty girl, and 
there was only one way. If Countess Marie should 
die! She had already thought of it. But Rose was 
watching somewhere. She could do nothing here in 
the house herself. But, then, how was Countess 
Marie to die? By a stranger’s hand, by an open, 
violent death, from which she would keep aloof. A 
robber’s attack, a struggle, resistance. 

She thought of Monsieur Jacques. She had often 
thought of him during these two days, without ex- 
actly knowing why. He was a dissolute man, a 
drunkard, ready for anything. 

Fraulein Jenny no longer had any calm thoughts. 
There is a quiet madness, a col # d anger, more pitiless 
than the wildest ravings. 

On that very evening the factory girl went to her 
room again. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

Herr Ilde in his dirty dressing-gown, with his 
spectacles on his nose, was just closing his shop, and 
bowed to his lodger, who in her plain black dress 
glided through the crowd of dealers and Jews into 
the damp gloomy entry. “ Oh ! Fraulein Lina. 
Another leisure evening. You come so seldom. ” 
And he grinned till one might really have believed 
him in love. Lina bowed and said a word or two in 
reply. 

Ilde held the rusty bolt in his hand, and tried to 
continue the conversation by asking if her brother 
had come. 

Lina replied, “ I do not expect him to-day,” and 
with another bow vanished up the rickety stairs. 
And on this evening Fraulein Jenny really did not 
expect her brother. On reaching the passage she 
listened, to try whether she could hear any one 
moving in the room next hers, and as soon as she 
had entered her own chamber and lighted the candle 

[ l 77] 


178 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


approached the connecting door and rapped. At 
the knock there was a sound, as if some one were 
lazily rising from a bed. Then a heavy step crossed 
the worm-eaten floor, and a sudden fear seized upon 
the delicate little fair-haired creature. She held the 
door firmly with her little hand, and timidly ex- 
claimed, “ Is it you, Monsieur Jacques?” 

“ Who the devil should it be?” replied the thick 
voice of the servant out of work, and at the same 
time the door was violently shaken. Fraulein Jenny 
removed her hand, and Monsieur Jacques, with red, 
glazed eyes, and garments covered with bits of straw, 
appeared on the threshold. The dim light in the 
room cast a faint, flickering ray upon his lace. 

When he saw his kind friend from Paris he stopped 
yawning and began to grin; then a very uncomfor- 
table expression flitted over his face. 

Monsieur Jacques was a bad, corrupt man. He 
drank too much, and was fond of picking locks ; he 
had neither honor nor honesty. But he helped his 
sick or unfortunate companions whenever he could, 
sent tobacco to them in prison, or smoothed their 
fevered brows as he had the sick rope-dancer’s. 
Moreover, the death of a murderer the long-forgot- 
ten suicide which had taken place in that very room, 
had made a strong impression upon him. He had a 
kind heart. Only the day before he had said to 
Rodolfo, who now that he was no longer handsome, 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


179 


but a common thief, was constantly drunk : “ I don’t 
know how it is but [ don’t want to see Jeanne, with 
whom 1 used to be so merry in the Quartier Latin. 
There is something strange about her — something 
wicked. 1 am afraid of her. ” Now he was forced 
to welcome her with a grimace. He passed on the 
threshold. She nodded to him, and still wrapped in 
her black shawl, went back to the table. Her good 
friend Monsieur Jacques, had such a terrible smell of 
brandy and dirty straw. 

“ Well, Jacques,” she said,gayly, “ I have brought 
you some money. It is only a little, but you can 
make a great deal, as much as you want, if you will 
do me a trifling service.” 

“ Oh !” he cried, eagerly stretching out the hand 
which had never been hardened by any honest toil. 

She gave him a bank-note which she had kept 
clenched in her fingers, and then leaned against the 
table. He thrust it into his vest pocket, and was 
instantly the man of business. “ And the favor?” 

“ Pshaw ! It must be all the same to you. Per- 
haps ” — and she assumed a deep, mock-tragic tone 
— “perhaps you must kill somebody.” The man’s 
flushed face turned very white, and he removed his 
hat and wiped his brow. “ No,” said he, “ not 
really? Oh! lam stupid. You were only joking, 
mademoiselle, but — ” 

“Joking? No. Have you grown pious?” She 


180 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


had dropped her shawl on the floor, and now swept 
her hair back from her face, which wore an expres- 
sion quite in keeping with the gloomy room. “ Sup- 
pose I wanted some one killed ?” 

Monsieur Jacques retreated across the threshold 
into his own room, covered his face with his hands, 
and took special care that his kind friend did not 
attack him with her nails. 

“I will tell you something, Mademoiselle Jeanne/' 
he said, hoarsely. “ Here in your room, which is 
often occupied by poor people for a night’s rest, 
some one hung himself because he had murdered a 
man. I had always thought it a very simple matter 
before, but since — since — I — I thank you, Mademoi- 
selle Jeanne.” 

She had grown flushed and anxious, and now tried 
to turn the whole matter into a jest, for she laughed 
shrilly, and was about to speak. He interrupted 
her. “ But close by there is a poor lad who is terri- 
bly deformed and has no money. He is a very 
unskilful thief, and he hates everybody, and would 
like nothing better than to murder some one and 
get paid for it. I — may I introduce him to you, 
Mademoiselle Jeanne ?” 

Monsieur Jacques was an artless, good-natured 
fellow, but also somewhat timid and fearful, for he 
had retreated into his own room and laid his hand 
on the latch of the door. Fraulein Jenny still 


1 FIE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


181 


laughed, as if the whole affair were a good joke. 
She seemed to want to amuse herself to-day. As 
Monsieur Jacques laid his hand on the latch, the 
door opened, and a man with a swollen, livid face, 
clad in a dirty, shaggy coat, with delicate torn boots 
on his feet, entered, and bowed to the young girl. 
“ 1 am at your service,” said he. 

Monsieur Jacques laughed heartily. “He has 
been listening,” he exclaimed. 

It was now Fraulein Jenny’s turn to be frightened. 
She had involuntarily started back at the sight of 
the young vagabond’s horrible face, and he hated 
her in his heart, as he abhorred all who shrank from 
his ugliness. But he bowed again, gracefully and 
easily, with all the pliant suppleness he had once 
shown on the trapeze. 

“My neighbor isn’t handsome,” said Monsieur 
Jacques, pleasantly, “ but he has such a hatred 
toward every one.” 

At the end of a quarter of an hour Rodolfo sat at 
the rickety table with Fraulein Jenny. The dim 
light was burning between them. The latter said, 
“Yes. The family will be at Castle Kopa during 
the next few days. One is a girl, a silly creature. 
If we agree, I will come here on the evening of the 
day after to-morrow, and we will both go to Castle 
Kopa by the ten o’clock train, but not in the same 
carriage. It is only a ride of three-quarters of an 


182 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


hour, and then you must wait in the park. I shall 
find a way to lure the girl there. And — and it 
would be well if she should not come back.” She 
uttered the words in a low, smothered tone, and her 
green eyes rested steadily on the rope-dancer. 

“ Yes,” said he; but there was no change in the 
expression of his hideous face. 

'‘You will take the girl’s watch and purse, so 
that people may say it was a robber and she resist- 
ed him ; then hurry back to the station, and either 
return to the city by the eleven o’cloek train or go 
on. No one will know, and I shall remain in the 
castle with the guests, so that no one can suppose I 
have any share in the matter. Your meeting will 
be thought an unfortunate accident. Here is a trifle 
now. You shall have three hundred florins day 
after to-morrow, before we go to work, and two 
hundred after it is accomplished.” 

“Very well. And what is her name?” he asked. 

“ What do you care for that? If you should wish 
to betray me I might perhaps be ruined ; but you 
would remain as poor as a church-mouse. Do you 
understand me?” 

“ I shan’t be stupid enough to betray a customer,” 
he replied, in his fresh, musical voice, which was so 
strangely out of harmony with the distorted face. 

A feeling of loathing suddenly overpowered Frau- 
lein Jenny, and she raised her handkerchief to her 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


183 


eyes to shut out the hideous countenance. Rodolfo 
laughed strangely as he noticed it. 

Then they talked on by the dim light for some time 
longer, and at last Fraulein Jenny took her hat from 
the bed, and looked around. She wanted to say 
farewell to Monsieur Jacques, but he was lying, in 
his ragged livery, on the dirty mattress in his own 
room sound asleep. 

Rodolfo gallantly took the lamp and lighted the 
young girl down the tottering stairs. She said a 
few pleasant words through her black veil and 
Rodolfo kept his left hand in his pocket clenching 
the bank-note, while he held the lamp in his right. 
He was calculating that in three days he should 
have as much money as if he were handsome, and in 
so doing forgot to say “ good-night.” 

“ How rich she must be,” he said aloud, as he 
returned. “ And how she loathes me.” 

He leaned against the damp wall of the passage 
and yawned. He had been drunk all the evening, 
and Fraulein Jenny had not noticed it, for the 
brandy did not stupefy him ; he could not forget ; 
he was only full of rage and anger, and this con- 
cealed his condition. 



CHAPTER XX. 

The servants were packing. The old count’s valet 
was packing his master’s smallest trunk, Count 
Oswald’s man was arranging all his luggage, and 
Betti, the new maid, was putting up Countess 
Marie’s clothing : only a few articles that would be 
needed for two or three days. But among these 
two or three toilettes Countess Marie ordered 
numerous trifles to be packed which she could not 
possibly want during the hunt; her parents’ por- 
traits, all her jewelry, her prayer-books, albums, and 
a great many little boxes. 

The maid spoke of this when she afterward went 
to Fraulein Jenny’s room to help her. “ Oh ! 1 
thank you, I have just finished. I shall only take a 
travelling bag,” said the governess. 

“ Yes, I think so, too,” said the maid. “ But 
the Countess Marie is packing a whole trunk.” 

Fraulein Jenny laughed. “ Where is she going 
first?” she thought when she wa§ again alone. 

[184] 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


185 


“ Probably to some German Gretna Green, 
where — ” 

Before dismissing the girl she said, “ Betti, tell 
Heinrich to request Count Oswald to honor me 
with a short call.” 

“ Here ?” 

“Yes, here,” said Fraulein Jenny, with a slight 
frown, looking haughtily at her. 

Betti expressed no farther surprise, but made a 
low courtesy and left the room. She was a simple 
young country girl, and had not been in the house 
long. But she would improve, and was already 
beginning to gossip and calculate. Now, for the 
first time, it occurred to her that the governess was 
really the most important personage in the house. 
Half an hour later — it was a cold, dreary, cheerless 
morning — Count Oswald entered Fraulein Jenny’s 
room, as he used to enter it in the old days in sunny 
Paris — entered with a flushed, kindly face, and put 
his arm around her. She wore a pretty, green 
dress, and looked fairer than ever. She was so 
beautiful, so pale, and her teeth glittered at every 
word. She laughed gayly as she looked up at him* 
“ I sent for you, Oswald,” she said, merrily, as she 
used to speak. Both had the same manner as when 
they first began to love each other. He knew that 
this was the last tinie he should ever speak to her, 
and she felt it might be the last if her deed of vio- 


186 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


lence failed. So they were both apparently the 
same as of old — both false — both breathed with dif- 
ficulty. She loved him more fondly than ever, even 
in the days of her happiness, and he pitied her. 

“ Yes, and it was quite right, but 1 should have 
come at any rate, Bibi,” said he. “ I wanted to see 
you once more before my departure, to bid you 
adieu, assure you that all is well.” 

“ Is all well ?” 

His face flushed, and he kissed her almost passion- 
ately. “Yes, it is well for me to go; when 1 
return, all that stood between us will be over. I — 
I love you, you dear little thing.” 

“ Yes, you love me,” she replied. “ How fortu- 
nate that is ! For 1 could crush you if you did not 
return — I love you better than anything else in the 
world, Oswald, that is, you are myself. If you 
should be false to me, I could hate, murder you, 
without pity. If you should betray me, you would 
be a dishonorable man.” 

“ Dishonorable !” 

“ Your heart would no longer have any honor. 
And now, farewell.” She threw her arms around 
him and gazed earnestly into his face. “ Do you 
love me ?” she asked, in a low, firm tone ; “ love me 
as you once did ?” 

He could not utter the lie. And he must release 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 187 

himself from her embrace, he felt as if he were sti- 
fling. 

“ Come, speak,” she said, still gazing intently at 
him. 

“ No !” he said at last, clenching 1 his hand, while a 
feeling of sudden hatred toward her arose in his 
heart ; for we always hate where we ought to love 
and cannot. “ Not now. You know— do not 
torture me.” 

“ Yes, I know you have sacrificed yourself, and 
are going away to be cured and learn to love me 
again. Is it not so ? But suppose you meant to 
practice some treachery upon me ?” 

He was not false. He had really only intended 
to go away to cure himself of his love. But then 
Countess Marie came and said, “ I love you, too.” 
We always belong to the person we love, and he 
suddenly found nature, happiness, justice, incom- 
patible with what Jenny had called the honor of 
the heart. His frank, open, honorable nature made 
him suffer the torments of hell. “Farewell,” said 
he. He forced himself to take her hand, and as he 
bent over her his lips seemed to shrink from the 
caress. She saw it. Yet she kissed him — coldly, 
scornfully, with a heart full of silent wrath. So 
they parted. She did not suspect that it was really 
forever. He did not look back, and she did not 
glance at him. Her face was buried in her little 


188 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


white hands. “Whom shall I kill?” moaned a 
voice within; “her — him — or myself?” 

After dinner was over, Count Leuthold said, with 
his usual quiet dignity: “You lucky fellow. Marie 
looks at you constantly. You will be the heir; and 
the two girls will have generous legacies. If you 
married Marie, you would wed both rank and 
beauty, and I should see the splendor and dignity 
of our name secured — mauvais siijet. Do me the 
favor to fall in love with her.” 

Count Oswald’s heart throbbed with bitter pain 
as he smilingly grasped his brother’s hand. “ How 
happy w 7 e might all be if Jeanne were not here, he 
thought, with a feeling of positive hatred. “ If 

Jeanne were dead ” 

* * * * * * 

The family was to go to Castle Kopa after mid- 
night, by the one o’clock train. The hunt began 
the next day, and all the owners of the neighboring 
estates were to assemble at a certain hour. 

The night before the day fixed for the journey 
every one in the palace retired early, directly after 
supper, in order to be fresher for the trip, and on 
this day Fraulein Jenny left the palace. At ten 
o’clock at night, in her usual stealthy manner, she 
glided out of the little side door, of which the ser- 
vants had the key, in order not to disturb the por- 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


189 


ter. And it was Herr Ilde’s lodger who left the 
palace. 

“She must die. Why did she come in my way? ” 
thought the black-robed, shabby, lonely girl, as she 
hurried through the dark streets toward her room. 
“ She took him from me, in spite of my entreaties, 
though I told her he was mine. Oh, God ! how can 
a woman be so cruel ? ” She closed her lips as if to 
force^back sobs, then laughed under her rusty veil; 
“ I should have been so, too. She loves him ! And 
she came later than I. That is the sole reason he 
fancies he loves her. If she had been his betrothed, 
and I had come in the way, it would have been the 
same. How base men are ! ” Her heart contracted 
with a fierce pang of jealousy. “ She shall die. 
What is a life? I have given him mine. And I will 
make him happy — I understand him — I will — ” She 
paused. 

It was a gloomy night. A pale, cold, autumn 
moon pierced forth between the clouds, and the 
black outlines of a church appeared beside her, as 
if suddenly risen from the earth. She was tired, 
wearied almost unto death. She loved him more 
than ever, loved him madly, yet she wished to do 
no evil. The struggle almost paralyzed her. She 
leaned against one of the pillars that supported the 
temple of the Lord. The moon did not shine upon 
her. She was completely in the shadow. She 


190 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


closed her eyes, clenched her hands, and shivered 
with a strange chill. She fancied that she was in 
the church, and the notes of the organ were echoing 
in her heart. She was as weak as a child, but at 
that moment not wicked. She hated and yet pitied 
herself. What a terrible deed she was going to 
commit — cause a murder! In the dying hour our 
thoughts are prophetic, and she felt as if she were 
dying. She was so weak, so helpless! Oh, God! 
was death really near? A strange presentiment 
came over her. For a moment she thought of kill- 
ing herself. But then they would be happy. 
Happy ! The word excited her to madness. In 
madness and death the thoughts are prophetic ; if 
she should die, she saw, in imagination, Oswald 
happy with his new love. The head that had so 
often rested on her breast, the eyes that had once 
beamed so brightly upon her, now found greater 
happiness in another. Oswald and Marie would be 
united and have a child, a sweet child, that might 
perhaps bear the name of Jeanne. And perhaps 
they would often speak of the poor girl, who had 
died rather than disturb their happiness. Perhaps 
some day even say to the child : “ You were named 
for 'a woman who loved your father so fondly, so 
fondly that she at last gave her life for him.” And 
then the little child would clasp her little hands and 
pray for her. Fraulein Jenny wept bitterly. But 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


191 


no! She could not make the resolution. If she 
killed herself, perhaps her haughty, hated rival 
would rejoice, and Oswald would soon forget her in 
the intoxication of happiness, for nothing is more 
thankless than joy. The girl must die. 

Fraulein Jenny hurried on. 

In the house toward which she was hastening the 
rope-dancer sat watching for her. 

“ She will come and bring me the money to-day,” 
he said to himself. 

He sat in the corridor — on the dirty floor of the 
corridor, before the room hired by the factory girl, 
who was a great lady. He had put on his shaggy 
coat, clasped his arms around his knees, and 
crouched in the darkness. “ And I am to kill a lady, 
who is beloved, or good, or something. And she, 
this little lady, has money, a great deal of money, 
and wants to be revenged. Suppose I should mur- 
der her , her ! In the dark. That would be a 
quicker way; she has the money with her. I hate 
all who have money ! And I could not kill the other. 
What is she to me ? I could only kill some one 
whom I — I have never done such a thing. How 
shall I feel ? Pshaw ! I can’t bear these people. 
They would leave me to starve like a wild beast. 
But I think I could only kill a person I hated! 

There was in the terrible thought some vague 
remnant of a kind heart ; a nature that perhaps, 


192 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


under different circumstances, might not have been 
evil. 

“ And I hate this little woman, who is so rich and 
so beautiful, and — I wonder how the other looks. 
Kill some one ! so that she will lie stiff and motion- 
less. I never saw a dead body. She has the money 
with her. I must live. She shrank from me so. 
Every one scorns me. The very beggars will not 
stand beside me. How could I grow so ugly ? I 
often try to smile as pleasantly as I did on the trap- 
eze, and everyone is horrified. I can’t steal. And 
I must have something to drink. How long will it 
be before I grow old and die? Oh! so long ! I 
must earn something. Yes, and this woman who 
wants me. to kill some one — this wicked, rich, beau- 
tiful woman ! — ” 

H err Tide’s favorite lodger was standing in the 
room, lighting her little lamp. The rope-dancer, 
with his savage face, shaggy coat, and laced scarlet 
boots, entered, holding something hidden in his 
breast. His voice was hoarse from the brandy he 
had drunk. “ Have you brought all the money with 
you ?” 

She suddenly started and fled to the window. A 
terrible dread seized upon her. She did not know 
what answer she ought to make. He came nearer, 
with a heavy, yet stealthy tread, and repeated the 
question, with a look full of hatred and fear of 



mP" 


do you know— the honor of a heart V 9 — See Page 165 












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THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


193 


what he was going to do. He had never seen 
a dead body. 

She knew not what to do, except fall on her knees 
and stammer, “Yes, oh! yes !” She was gasping 
for breath, yet tried to smile at him. She had 
already won, conciliated, guided so many by her 
smile. But if he meant to serve her, why did he 
look at her so, why did he seize her hand? “ Oh, 
God ! oh, God !” 

She fell back, with a stifled cry, and a deep gash 
in her throat. 

The next instant he was rumaging in her bag 
with frantic haste — with frantic haste and horror. 

He had never seen any one dead. But why did 
they all shrink from him so ? His hands were red 
with the blood that gushed from her neck, but he 
skillfully kept the banknotes unstained, and thrust 
them into the pockets of his shaggy coat. There. 

He could only kill those he hated. The wicked, 
the rich, the beautiful, not those to whom people 
wished and did evil — as they did to him ! 

This thought was the one faint gleam of excuse 
for the murderer, who fled from his first victim, 
trembling, shivering, and despairingly repeating — 
he had been dreaming. A voice in his heart wailed 
loudly, as if over the grave of some beloved person. 
How he had hated this woman ! And now ! With 
what rapturous joy he would have shouted if he 


194 


THE HONOR OF THE HEART. 


could have brought her to life. The flying mur- 
derer would have kissed the dust away from her 
poor little feet. 

***** 

Count Oswald and Countess Marie, though they 
knew it not, were now free and happy. 

And after one short quarter of an hour, Fraulein 
Jenny died. Her dim eyes opened once more, but 
she could no longer move a limb of her bleeding 
body. Those eyes beheld, as if through dingy 
glass, an empty, dirty room, and sought her lover; 
then they dilated with a strange horror, gazed for 
one long second into the void of eternity, and then 
light died out forever. 

***** 

May God have mercy on the dead, the murderer, 
and the happy. 


THE END. 


THE LAST SOLEJ 


% ffowl. 


/ BV 

W. BERGSOE. v~ 

v 

^ ^ X 4 > 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 

By MARY J. SAFFORD. 


NEW YORK: 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 


PUBLISHERS. 


COPYRIGHT, 1893, 

BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 


(All rights reserved.) 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


LEJ was the name of a farm-house 
which stood in a narrow valley among 
the mountains. In summer, when the 
sun was highest, a faint golden light 
filtered through the black firs which 
shaded the windows and flickered in dancing 3'ellow 
flecks over a few geraniums whose long, luxuriant 
branches twined around the window-panes. All 
the rest of the year Solej was in shadow, during 
the winter amid the snow and in spring in the mire ; 
for the melted snow that swelled the mountain 
streams covered the whole road with greyish white 
foam, and even washed the foundations of the 
building. 

Seen from a distance, Solej looked like the swallows 
nests that are fastened to the cliffs — but if one went 
down into the valley the black, gloomy buildings 

Li97j 



198 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


resembled one large and two small coffins, for the 
long main dwelling and the two barns beside it 
were not painted red like those on the other farms, 
but smeared from top to bottom with black tar to 
keep out the dampness. Solemn and dark the grey 
cliff towered behind it, silent and gloomy rose (he 
long row of sombre firs in front, and Solej itself was 
still and sad now as ever — happiness had never dwelt 
long within its walls. One generation after another 
had grown up there, stretching out arms of eager 
yearning for sunlight, joy and deliverance, but 
death alone had heard their prayers. 

Mire and mould had coated the walls of the house 
and seemed to have even entered into the blood of 
its inmates. Each generation had faded away like 
the geraniums at the windows ; for as the old physi- 
cian said “ where the sun cannot enter, I am always 
wanted,” and he was right. He attended the father, 
the mother, the two daughters and, whenever 
he came, death was his attendant. 

At last only two sons were left, “ the last at 
Solej,” as they were called in the parish, Guttorm, 
the younger brother, a lad of eighteen, and Od, a 
giant of twenty-four, who looked as if he might be 
the boy’s father. But Od, from early childhood, 
had worked for the rich land-owner, Halvard 
Samundsen, of Fosnas, and there the sun shone and 
happiness reigned. When the bells tolled at the 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


199 


funeral of the last sister, the two brothers lingered 
after the notes had died away to pray beside 
the new-made grave which contained all that they 
had loved in this world. On the way home to Solej 
they resolved to sell the farm and go to a third 
sister, who lived in that land of marvels, free Amer- 
ica. She had gone with her husband when very 
young, across the broad ocean to the distant West, 
and in writing of her happiness everything glittered 
with the rosy radiance of the setting sun, 

“Where yonder sun sinks in the sea 
There’s happiness and joy for thee,” 

she htfd sung long, long years before to Guttorm. 

Od thought that he himself would make a capital 
lumber man, while delicate Guttorm, with his beau- 
tiful melancholy eyes, played the fiddle so well that 
the girls in the neighborhood sometimes danced 
merrily to the music and sometimes wept to hear its 
strains. 

A fortnight later an auction was held, but nobody 
attended it except Halvard Samundsen, and he 
bought the farm for a song — shortly after it was 
rumored that the last of the Solej family were going 
to emigrate. 

A dense gray mist shrouded the valley. It had 
rained in torrents for several days, but now the 
north wind had dispelled the sultriness of August 


200 


THE LA8T SOLEJ. 


and the moisture was rising in heavy columns 
of fog. The mountain stream rushed foaming into 
the valley, where it was still almost oppressively 
hot. The rain hung in heavy drops on the leaves 
of the birches and dripped down upon the moss 
and ferns that grew in the chinks of the rocks. 

The sky was still bluish-gray and covered with 
clouds, only here and there the sun burst through 
sending a quivering shaft of light upon the mists 
that had gathered in the narrow valley and could 
find no outlet. Higher up the fog-veils grew 
thinner and were pierced by the black summits of 
the fir trees which stood like a row of grave knights, 
each wearing a collar of fog. Below, between the 
stream and the cliff, a narrow path led up to Fosnas, 
along which Guttorm and Od were walking, both 
equipped with high rubber boots and thick, coarse 
coats. Od carried a heavy knapsack, Guttorm a 
lighter one, from which peeped out the treasured 
fiddle carefully wrapped in a seal-skin cover. Both 
moved slowly and silently. Now and then Guttorm 
turned and glanced back towards Solej ; but the 
place was shrouded in mist. Suddenly he said : 

“ Let us wait until to-morrow ! We shan't reach 
Fosnas before dark.” 

“ And Guri ?” asked Od. 

Guttorm made no reply, but slackened his pace. 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


201 


“ Why are you weeping ?” asked Od, grasping 
his brother's arm. 

“ I’m not weeping. It's only the water dripping 
from my cap,” he answered. 

Od released his arm with a jerk, and they again 
moved on side by side in silence. 

It began to rain again — at first only as a fine mist, 
which by degrees increased to a steady pour. The 
path became almost impassable, the stream had 
overflowed its banks in some places, and now and 
then the deep silence was interrupted by a dull, dis- 
tant roar, caused by the water plunging over a 
high cliff just below Fosnas, where Halvard 
Samundsen lived. The brothers were on their way 
there to get the purchase money for Solej. At 
last they approached the bridge, across which the 
road to Fosnas led, but when they came down the 
hill they could see no trace of it. Guttorm thought 
it was the fault of the mist ; but Od’s fears were 
unfortunately confirmed. The stream had swept it 
away and the beams and planks hung between the 
cliffs, protruding from the water like the ribs of 
a huge whale. Only the posts and cross-beams 
remained, and the foaming water dashed swirling 
beneath. 

“ VVe must have the money,” said Od, taking off 
his heavy boots with the aid of the iron clamps by 
which the posts were fastened. 


202 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


“ Surely we can wait until to-morrow," replied 
Guttorm. 

“ The ship won’t wait for us," retorted Od, turn- 
ing the legs of his boots down to keep out the moist- 
ure. 

“ True," answered Guttorm sighing. “Let us 
go then." 

“ No, you must stay here. A boy like you ought 
not to risk such a thing." 

“Do you think so?" asked Guttorm, trying to 
pull his own boots off by the posts of the bridge — 
but in vain, he was too small. 

“Stay here," said Od, laying his huge hand on his 
brother’s shoulder. “ You would rather play for 
Guri than for the water-nixies ?" 

“ What do you mean?" asked Guttorm. 

“ I dreamed about you last night," replied Od, 
“ and whatever one dreams during the last night at 
home will come true, Mother Marli says." 

“ What did you dream ?" 

“ I dreamed we were walking beside the stream 
hunting for birds’ eggs, and an owl flew down and 
pecked out one of your eyes. I seized my gun and 
was going to shoot it, when it changed into an eagle 
which struck its claws into you and carried you off 
across the water. There it dropped you ; I heard 
a scream and woke," 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


203 


“ I probably cried out in my sleep, I sometimes 
do since my illness.” 

“ Yes, you shrieked, and drops of cold perspira- 
tion were standing on your forehead,” replied Od. 
“ Stay here, I have a presentiment that some mis- 
fortune may befall you. You will stay, won’t you?” 

“ And Guri ?” asked Guttorm in his turn. 

“ I will take your love to her, and tell her of our 
plans. Next year she can come over with the cap- 
tain, and then your violin must support you both. 
She is betrothed to you, and you can leave her here 
for that time without anxiety.” 

He took the knapsack from his shoulder, flung it 
across the stump on which Guttorm sat, turned, and 
went towards the bridge. 

Guttorm started up, seized him by the coat, and 
said: “Be careful, Od, you are taking a perilous 
path.” 

“ Not a year passed during my time of service in 
Fosnas that I did not cross the river at least once 
while it was in a similiar state,” Od answered. 

“ I don’t fear the water,” Guttorm answered, 
“ There is no one so strong and agile as you.” 

“ What are you afraid of, then ?” asked Od, swing- 
ing himself upon the first beams. 

“ Beware of Halvard Samundsen ! He has heard 
of our agreement with Guri. And you know he has 
long had an eye upon her.” 


204 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


“ Well, what more?” said Od, scornfully. 

Guttorm, with a single bound, reached his broth- 
er’s side. Let me go with you,” he pleaded. Hal- 
yard Samundsen was at Solej yesterday. He met 
me with Guri near the stable — ” 

“ Well ?” Od questioned. 

“ He threatened to kill me, me or any one else 
who dared to come between him and Guri. Let me 
go with you, Od. True, I am not so strong as you, 
but I won’t allow you to visit Fosnas alone.” 

Od stooped and picked up the heavy boots he had 
placed on one of the posts of the bridge. Then he 
tied them together with a bit of rope, flung them 
over his shoulder, and after completing his prepara- 
tions very slowly and carefully, he threw his right 
arm around his brother and set him on the ground 
as though he had been a child. 

“ Which of us is the stronger?” he called, nodding 
kindly, as he wiped off the foam sprinkled by the 
waves on his beard, and pursued his way. 

Guttorm stood watching him until his gigantic 
figure grew smaller and smaller — it seemed as 
though the mist was devouring him — at last he van- 
ished from his gaze. Guttorm still remained in the 
same spot. The foam from the rushing water 
dashed into his eyes; he wiped it away and again 
stared fixedly into the dense cloud-wreaths— never 
had he so fully realized his love for his strong 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


205 


brother. Then he heard a shrill, piercing whistle. 
Od had crossed safely. 

Guttorm stooped and tried to answer the signal, 
but his lungs were weaker and he could not drown 
the roar of the water. He picked up Odd’s drip- 
ping knapsack, wiped it, and carefully concealed it 
under a rock on the shore. Then, seating himself 
on a stone, he gazed with an apparently vacant stare 
at the white, foam-crested waves dashing around 
the dark masses of rock at his feet. But his thoughts 
were seething as restlessly among the cliffs that 
beset his life-path as the troubled waters of the 
stream surged below. Ever since he could remem- 
ber, he had longed to leave this place. Many a 
lonely evening, at Solej, he had wept bitterly, on 
account of this ardent longing to go far away, had 
keenly felt the oppression and constraint, visible in 
his father, mother, and sisters, as well as in the 
natural scenery surrounding him. He had read of 
Ole Bull, who, a poor boy, like himself, had gone to 
distant, foreign lands and returned home, rich and 
honored. He had played in far-away America, and 
thousands had listened to his music ; endless ap- 
plause greeted him wherever he appeared, and the 
diamonds set in his bow, glittered like lightning 
flashes accompanying the thunder of the notes. To 
leave Solej, fly far beyond the mountains to the land 
of fame, and return like Ole Bull amid the acclama- 


206 


'THE LAST SOLEJ. 


tions of the crowd — this had been his dream, the 
goal of his aspirations and longing ; it had quivered 
through his music, lending it a peculiar charm. He 
would be a famous man, like Ole Bull — this was his 
firm resolve. 

Then one evening he chanced to meet Guri at 
Fosnas, and from that time his dreams changed. 
Halvard Samundsen had brought herefrom Chris_ 
tiania. “ She is the child of aristocratic people,” he 
said, and there were many proofs of the truth of his 
words. She was slender, small, and delicate, her 
work was quietly done, yet everything was as pleas- 
ant as a smile. She managed the house, the farm, 
nay, even looked after the shop when Halvard was 
away ; for she could not only read and write, but 
could keep accounts, too, “ and much better than I 
can,” Halvard Samundsen said. Guttorm came one 
evening to buy strings for his fiddle and met her in 
the shop. Halvard was absent on a journey. Guri 
selected the strings for him herself, and he stretched 
them on the fiddle and tuned them. Then she 
begged him to play. At first he refused, not think- 
ing it seemly to play to so dainty a lady. 

“ Then I will play for you," she replied, and went 
into the best room where stood a piano Halvard 
had taken in pledge for some money the pastor 
owed him. Guttorm had never seen one, but when 
she began to piay he seized his violin and accom- 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


207 


panied her — it seemed as though they were dancing 
together. He did not know how it came about, 
but when he went home the stars were shining in 
the midnight heavens and he felt as if he had flown 
far away like a swallow that rests for the first time 
in the shadow of the palms. After that evening his 
fiddle needed new strings very often ; they were 
continually snapping when he played in the dark 
room at home. Sometimes he heard in the distance 
from Fosnas the notes of a shepherd’s horn ; then 
he knew that Halvard Samundsen had set off on a 
journey ; for playing on the piano was not the only 
thing that Guri could do. 

One evening tears sparkled in her eyes, she made 
short answers and did not wish to play. She 
wrapped the strings for him in a bit of paper — he 
must go. 

“ But why ?” 

She would not reply — he must go. Guttorm 
went to the door and she looked after him while 
entering the strings in her account book. 

Guttorm came slowly back, put his arms around 
her, stooped, and asked her what he had done. 
Guri’s tears now fell in torrents and she told the 
whole story. Halvard had gone away the day 
before, but in the evening ere his departure he had 
entered her room, embraced her, and told her how 
gladly he would make his little book-keeper his wife 


208 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


He was going to Christiania and would arrange the 
matter with her relations. 

He left her without waiting for a reply ; but the 
next morning he had put his hand under her chin 
and given her the betrothal kiss before the eyes of 
everybody. She did not want to marry him ! Ah, 
indeed she did not! But what in the world could a 
poor desolate girl do? She had not a single human 
being to whom she could appeal for aid ! 

When Guttorm went home that evening his 
dream had assumed another form. Ole Bull and 
his diamond studded bow no longer allured him. 
He saw only a pair of eyes that had gazed into his 
face so beseechingly, felt the pressure of a hand 
that had rested on his heart, the quiver of lips that 
had touched his own. Honor, fame, and wealth 
dissolved into wreaths of mist, and when he now 
looked forward to the future he beheld a little house 
on the edge of the primeval forest in that distant 
land — and in the doorway Guri singing. But with 
the song and his quiet happiness blended fierce 
thoughts of vengeance upon Halvard Samundsen, 
who held her captive like a caged bird that was his 
property, property to which he had a rightful 
claim. What did he possess? Nothing but money. 
What did he want? A book-keeper — and Guri 
suited him for that purpose. 

Then it chanced that Halvard approached the 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


209 


couple near the barn at Solej. He had long been 
suspicious of them, but would not suffer himself to 
believe that the suspicion was well founded. 

Guri had never ventured to leave Fosnas especi- 
ally in the evening, and now he found her, his own 
property, in Guttorm ’s arms. Had not Od been 
near he would undoubtely have killed them both, so 
great was his rage. But he contented himself with 
warning Guttorm and dragging Guri home by force. 
But how would she fare now and what would befall 
Od? Samundsen was, if possible, even stronger 
than his powerful brother. 

Guttorm again looked across the stream, whose 
waters surged and roared ceaselessly. The yellow- 
white foam on the waves looked very ugly, and 
ugly visions rose before his mind. Could the tale 
rumored in the neighborhood when he was a mere 
child have been true? Yonder, where stately mas- 
sive Fosnas now stood, Halvard Samundsen only 
twelve years ago had lived as a poor peddler in a 
wretched little hut. A rich Englishman came there 
to buy silver buttons and to fish for salmon, and 
Halvard served as his guide. One evening Halvard 
rowed him across the stream, moored the boat to 
a cliff and went into the woods to pick berries 
for his wealthy guest. Evening had closed in when 
he returned to find boat and Englishman gone. 
Halvard said that the foreigner must have 


210 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


loosed the skiff and gone down the little river, but 
the strange part of the story was that, from that 
day forth the once poor man had plenty of money. 

When he built three wings to Fosnas and put large 
glass windows in the main building, the people kept 
silence and only the stream talked on. No one un- 
derstood the language of the water, but one thing 
was noticed by Halyard’s neighbors, especially those 
who had known him from childhood — he began to 
drink! Not in the company of others, or on festal 
occasions. On the contrary, he was always sober 
at such times and never caused quarrels. No, his 
drinking was done in a very strange way. He sat 
alone, with locked doors, in the room behind the 
shop and drank, often to excess, while talking con- 
tinually to himself. Often long intervals occurred, 
during which he did not touch a glass of gin though 
he sold it himself in the shop. But when the thirst 
for liquor was coming on, people always knew it in 
advance. It was like the calm before a storm. He 
became taciturn and could not rest indoors, but 
longed to be out. He often walked for miles among 
the mountains or through the woods, but was never 
seen near the river. He sought lonely paths, and if he 
met any one, he either avoided him or turned back. 
On reaching home he was utterly exhausted, but 
would not eat a mouthful, locked himself into the 
baek room, closed even the shutters, lighted — 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


211 


whether the season was winter or summer — a fire in 
the huge stove, and brought in two bottles of gin 
with his own hands. When his servants saw him 
they shrank timidly away, knowing that the storm 
would burst during the night. They could hear 
him talking in the dark room lighted only by the 
fire, but no one understood what he said. He talked 
incessantly, sometimes in loud tones, sometimes 
softly, often in two different voices. Sometimes he 
started up, pounded the table, swore violently, then 
relapsed into low whispers. About midnight there 
was a hoarse, gasping noise from the locked room, 
a heavy fall, and then utter silence — he had raged 
himself into unconsciousness. There seemed to be 
nothing really dangerous in the matter, yet all Fos- 
nas dreaded the storm when they noticed its ap- 
proach. Twice he had entered the shop about sun- 
set to get more liquor, and both times he had be- 
haved in so unruly a fashion that people were called 
to bind him. The following day he had always been 
as gentle as a lamb and set off on a journey. Guri 
on these occasions took charge of everything, 

Guri! Guttorm’s thoughts leaped across the 
river, up the cliff, and into the little room with 
which he had grown so familiar. What would be. 
come of Guri, now that he was going away, and 
Halvard knew of their betrothal ? He felt more 


212 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


and more plainly that he must see and speak to her 
again, cost what it might. But the stream ? 

Just at that moment a long-drawn, plaintive note 
pierced the dense fog, quivering through the air 
high above the roar of the waves. He started up, 
every muscle tense with excitement — it was the 
sound of Guri’s horn! He knew it only too well; 
what did it mean? With a swift jerk he snatched 
off his knapsack and laid it beside his brother’s, but 
it rolled farther on, slipped down the steep bank 
and hung on a jutting rock near the water’s edge. 

He left it there and hurried towards the bridge. 
In an instant he had climbed one of the posts and, 
unheeding the surging waves at his feet, leaped 
from beam to beam so that the timbers swayed be 
neath his weight. When he reached the opposite 
shore he glanced back, wondering that he had es- 
caped, then drawing on his boots set off along the 
path to Fosnas. 

He did not wish to go to the house, but turned 
aside into a path winding between some young 
birch-trees whose wet branches brushed against his 
face. It was steep and narrow, and led to a patch 
of turf near the wall of the farm-yard used for 
bleaching the household linen. Guri had told him 
of this sunny, sheltered spot behind the cliff down 
which plunged the roaring waves of the stream. 
To-day he could see neither sun nor river — nothing 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


213 


but mist and drifting clouds, yet Guttorm suspected 
that she was waiting for him there — and where she 
was there could be no need of sunshine. 

When he at last reached the spot it lay empty 
and desolate between the bare, bleak rocks, on 
which not even the birch-trees could find root. On 
the left was a sheer precipice at whose foot the 
thundering roar of the river was distinctly audible 
through the gray veil of mist; on the right were 
two slender fir-trees and the red buildings of Fos 
nas, all shrouded in fog — lonely and silent. 

Guttorm resolved to wait, and sat down under 
a jutting rock whence he could overlook the house. 
Now and then he fancied he heard a noise, some- 
thing that sounded almost like a shriek ; but the 
roar of the torrent was so loud that it could not fail 
to drown any sound from human lips. Suddenly the 
fog lifted, a bright glow gilded the tops of the fir- 
trees on the opposite side of the stream — it was the 
setting sun making a last effort to send a farewell 
greeting to the mist-wreathed earth ! The whole 
forest trembled with the chili of evening, a gust of 
wind shook the rain drops from the boughs. Then 
the clouds parted, and the warm, rosy sunset light 
illumined the turf-grown terrace and formed a rain- 
bow over the cataract, which, at this moment, looked 
like a stream of red wine pouring down the cliff. 

Guttorm was spell-bound by the spectacle. Never 


214 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


had the valley and stream seemed so beautiful, even 
the dark windows of Solej glittered with a golden 
radiance and cast shafts of reflected sunshine into 
the dispersing masses of mist. He gazed down at 
the river, whose rosy foam dashed upwards at his 
feet, every flower and fern on the bank sparkled as 
if strewn with diamonds. Never had he beheld 
such a sunset, and he involuntarily hummed the 
lines of the old song his sister had taught him. 

“ Where yonder sun sinks in the sea, 

There’s happiness and joy for thee.” 

Just at that instant he felt a violent blow on the 
back and, with a loud cry, fell upon his knees. 
When he regained his footing, Halvard was stand- 
ing before him, tall and strong as a giant, with 
bristling hair, glaring eyes, and crimson face. 
With almost superhuman power he clutched Gut- 
torm by the throat, dragged him close to him, and 
stared into his eyes. 

“Good Heavens, what are you doing!” gasped 
the youth, who felt Halvard’s hand clenching his 
throat closer. But Halvard did not answer, he only 
tightened his grasp, and Guttorm perceived with 
terrible certainty that the madman’s iron hand was 
forcing him nearer and nearer to the precipice. 

An awful foreboding overpowered him and, 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


215 


wrenching himself free, he groaned : “ Halvard, 
Haivard, what are you doing ? Is not one enough ?” 

Halvard again drew him close : “ Do you know 
that? Then the river will surely have room for 
two.” 

“ Let me go !” shrieked Guttorm, who felt the 
ground yielding under his feet. “ I will never 
betray you.” 

Halvard again dragged him close, so close that 
his red, bloated face touched Guttorm’s. “ A pleas- 
ant journey!” he mumbled. “Now I’ll go to 
Guri.” 

And he relaxed his grasp on his victim. 

“Guri!” shrieked Guttorm, extending his arms as 
he plunged backward over the precipice. 

Neither cry nor fall was heard, — the thundering 
roar of the torrent drowned every sound. Butin 
the gulf below, the foaming water seethed violently 
and dashed upwards in crimson drops. Then these, 
too, vanished, and the waves dashed on as impetu- 
ously as before. 

Halvard stared at the red whirlpool an instant, 
then flung the piece of turf Guttorm had torn in his 
fall, down into the gulf beneath. The sun sank 
behind the forest, the mists again rose from the val- 
ley, and in the cold, damp night air Halvard 
plunged into the depths of the woods, muttering to 
himself in a low tone and shrinking timidly aside 


216 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


whenever his fancy perceived a human figure in the 
distance. 

****** 

Years had passed — twenty-three years — and many 
changes occur in so long a time. The place where 
Solej had stood was now occupied by a saw-mill 
owned by Halvard Samundsen, who annually sent 
thousands of logs floating down the stream, for all 
the woods stretching from Solej far beyond Fosnas 
belonged to him. In the garden where Guttorm 
and Od had played in their childhood a factory had 
been erected, in which during the summer the 
mountain stream turned the wheels, while in winter 
a light cloud of steam rising above the roof showed 
that energetic Halvard Samundsen was not to be 
stopped when the frost king laid his fetters on the 
water. 

The valley, too, was changed. A certain air of 
prosperity pervaded it, due partly to better times, 
partly to Halvard’s liberality where religious matters 
were concerned. The rough, frail wooden structure, 
that had formerly crossed the stream, had given 
place to a delicate iron suspension bridge, over 
which the train glittering brightly in the sunshine, 
dashed panting and puffing to stop at the newly- 
built station, ere turning toward the mountains 
where it vanished among the cliffs as though by 
some magic spell. Halvard had succeeded, at a 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


217 


parish meeting-, in gaining consent to have the ruin- 
ous old church with its queer tower, projecting 
cornice, and steep wooden roof, pulled down, with 
the parsonage adjoining. It had cost him 10.000 
thalers to carry out his plan — but what was that for 
a man whose logs leaped like salmon in the mountain 
stream, while floating down from Fosnas to Dram- 
men ? Nobody should say that he was avaricious. 

Who could have such an idea ? People need only 
look at the changes which had taken place in Fosnas. 
The red wooden houses had made way for substan- 
tial, massive buildings with glass windows. A path — 
an extension of the one by which Guttorm had come 
to his death — had been cut through the rocks, and 
Halvard, who seemed haunted by the fear that some 
one might fall over the precipice, had had a solid 
stone wall built along the bleaching ground, so that 
one could gaze without being giddy into the terrible 
gulf along which the foaming river rushed, scatter- 
ing its shower of snowy spray over the turf. This 
grass-plot was now a portion of the garden, fruit- 
trees had been planted in it, and a broad gravelled 
walk, bordered with box, led directly to the best 
room in Fosnas. There was one thing the parish 
could not exactly understand — why Halvard, when 
he rebuilt Fosnas, had made the front of the house 
face the woods, the outlook was so dreary and con- 
fined. The best room alone had a view of the river. 


218 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


but Halvard never went into that room. Even on 
Christmas eve, when the servants danced there, 
they were obliged to cross the courtyard to drink 
their master’s health. He could not bear the 
stream, its roar was horrible to him, especially in 
the spring, when it was swollen by the melting 
snows. At this season he usually went to Drammen 
or Christiania. But at Christmas there was no pre- 
text for his absence, yet he never entered the best 
room nor set foot in the garden. 

Halvard Samundsen was rich, very rich ; but 
was he happy ? The younger generation did not 
doubt it ; even envied him; but the old people in 
the parish took a different view. What could it 
avail to have built a massive church and handsome 
parsonage, if his own home remained empty and 
desolate Guri had waited the second and third year, 
as well as the first; then she gave up hope. The 
sun of her happiness had set in the distant West, she 
thought — for the promised letter had never come, 
neither from Guttorm nor Od. The latter had had 
a discussion with Halvard, whom he had found 
drunk and who had brutally refused the purchase 
money for Solej. After long persuasion, however, 
Od obtained it, but when he was passing through 
the door Halvard kicked him. Od turned and 
seizing him by the shoulder pushed him violently 
several times against the bed posts. Halvard 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


219 


rushed furiously at him, but Od coolly shut the door 
in his face and went away, while Halvard jumped 
out of the window and ran across the bleaching 
ground to overtake him, but instead found Guttorm 
who was waiting for Guri. What happened then 
no one knew save the mist, and the river. 

Od had set out on his return at once, crossed the 
bridge safely, and saw Guttorm’s knapsack hanging 
among the cliffs, while his own lay near it on the 
bank. He searched and called but received no 
answer, lost his way in the dense mist and came 
out of the woods again some distance below,* where 
several rocks obstructed the course of the torrent. 
Here he found Guttorm’s hat, washed ashore by the 
waves. Now everything became clear — Guttorm 
had attempted to cross the bridge. 

Od had one of those strong, reserved natures, 
which, though secretly deeply moved by grief, 
always maintain outward calmness. He had fondly 
loved his pale, fragile brother, loved him as a father 
loves his child, and he wept bitterly as he concealed 
the hat in his knapsack. But what would lamenta- 
tions avail ? Guttorm was dead, and the ship 
bound for the distant West was waiting for the liv- 
ing. Write to Guri ? Why should he ? He could 
not restore Guttorm to her, and her life was hard 
enough already. So he went away and, when once 
in the distant West, living in the primeval forests, 


220 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


it seemed as though Norway and Guri were so far 
off that no letter would ever reach them. Often, 
especially at sunset, he thought of Guttorm and his 
promised wife. His heart softened at the memory, 
but his hands had grown too hard to write. 

The first six months Guri felt as if she were in a 
dream. Halvard was absent from Fosnas during 
the whole time, nay he even wrote that he was 
thinking of selling the property. Then he came 
home, built the wall along the edge of the cliff 
above the stream, took the bleaching ground into 
the garden, and set off again. Guri could not 
understand why he, who had formerly watched her 
with Argus eyes, now allowed her so much liberty. 
Nothing more was said of a marriage with her and 
she was both glad and grateful. But she did not 
hear a word from Guttorm, and the longer she 
waited the more anxious she became. Some acci- 
dent must have happened. 

She suffered silently, fading under her grief. 
There was no one in whom she could confide, cer- 
tainly not Halvard Samundeeson, whom she feared. 
At last she formed a bold resolve — to go to America 
and seek Guttorm. But she only reached Christi- 
ania, no one would take her without money. Weep- 
ing and desolate, she sat disheartened on the wharf, 
and there Halvard found her. She trembled at the 
sight of him, but he did not scold nor fly into a rage 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


221 


as usual — on the contrary, he was gentle and kind. 
If during the next year a letter should come from 
Guttorm, he promised to give her money for the 
journey ; but now she must come home with him, 
he would treat her like a child, a daughter. It 
would be desolate at Fosnas without her, and Gut- 
torm would surely write. 

Guri marvelled at his generosity, but she was to 
be still more surprised on her return to Fosnas, for 
Halvard kept his word. She was really treated like 
a daughter of the house. All the coarser work was 
done for her, nothing was too good for her use, and 
when goods were sent from Christiania, she always 
had a special box which contained clothing, orna- 
ments, and jewels richer and more costly than any 
girl in the neighborhood possessed. Guri wore the 
garments and thought she looked better than ever 
before, but she thought only of Guttorm— it was for 
him alone that she wished to be beautiful. 

Then a rumor spread through the community that 
she was Halvard’s mistress. At first this was only 
whispered, but gradually it became openly dis- 
cussed, even at church meetings, till at last one day 
the pastor came to her — it was the very day after 
the parish meeting in which Halvard had carried 
through his plan for the new parsonage. 

Guri scornfully denied the slander; but when the 
pastor had gone away she wept and grieved bitterly. 


222 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


In the evening Halvard gently yet firmly repre- 
sented that matters could not remain in their present 
condition. She was alone in the world, and there- 
fore must be doubly careful of the opinions of 
others. If she should leave Fosnas now, people 
would naturally say that the story was true, and 
where could she go then — who would receive her ? 
If she desired to stay he must, for the sake of his 
good name, beseech her to betroth herself to him. 
Too much had already been said, he could not sub- 
mit to it. He loved her and owed her this vindica- 
tion. If Guttorm still stood between them, he 
would defer the marriage a year. Should Guttorm 
write within that time, he would take a solemn oath 
to let her go, this was the finishing stroke. Guri 
wept, but accepted the betrothal ring he placed on 
her finger. 

There are weddings whose bells seem to toll 
funeral notes, and whose hymns sound like dirges — 
Guri’s was one of them. The kind pastor who had 
been so grieved by the rumor that she was Hal- 
vard’s mistress, had no scruples about marrying her 
to him, nay he had even promised his friend and 
patron to avail himself of the opportunity to appeal 
to her conscience. But his address sounded as 
though Guri was about to enter Halvard’s service 
rather than to fill the place of his wife. He laid 
great stress upon her solitary position in the world, 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


223 


her slender merits compared to Halyard’s who had 
so greatly benefitted the parish, the church, and the 
servant of the Lord, and said that she ought to 
thank God on her knees for the great blessings that 
had fallen to her lot. Guri stood motionless as if 
she did not hear his words, her eyes were fixed on 
vacancy, as though beholding another world, only 
when the pastor emphasized the words that the wife 
must be subject to her husband in all things she 
made a movement of retreat, but at the same instant 
he seized her hand, asking : “ Do you consent to 
marry this, man ?” 

Guri’s lips moved, but no answer came. Her face 
grew even whiter than before. 

“ You must answer!” whispered the pastor. 

Guri turned and looked at Halvard, whose red, 
bloated, self-satisfied face betrayed no trace of emo- 
tion, then she whispered; “Merciful Heaven, no!” 

The pastor started and paused a moment, then 
glanced at Halvard, who cast a meaning look at him 
in reply. 

“ Then join hands,” the clergyman went on with- 
out any sign of embarrassment. “ And I pronounce 
you man and wife.” 

At the same instant Guri tottered and the heavy 
bridal crown fell from her head and rolled rattling 
over the stone floor of the church. But this was 


224 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


the sole mishap that occurred ; in every other 
respect the wedding passed off smoothly. 

Yet it was no happy marriage, spite of the pas- 
tor’s blessing. Scarcely three days had passed ere 
Halvard showed himself in his true character — sus- 
picious, tyrannical, and cruel. No matter how 
humble and respectful Guri might be, he felt that 
the main thing was lacking, and the slighest cause 
sufficed to urge him from reproaches to violence, 
and from violence to actual frenzy. Then she was 
upbraided for everything ; her humble origin, her 
poverty, her coldness — but he never alluded to her 
love for Guttorm, and though this was a mystery to 
Guri she felt heartily grateful. With all his brutal- 
ity, this evinced a delicacy of feeling for which she 
longed to thank him. 

The following year Guri was about to become a 
mother, and Halvard went to Christiania to make 
purchases for the christening feast. But he might 
have spared himself the trouble, the child lived only 
a few moments. “ Such a puny little creature,” said 
the nurse. 

Halvard turned pale when he beheld the unnatur- 
ally old, wrinkled features of the little corpse and 
locking up the christening ornaments, uttered no 
word, not even to Guri. The latter was slow in 
regaining her health ; she looked pale and misera- 
ble, and grieved secretly. The following year the 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


225 


same thing occurred, and the physician summoned 
from the nearest city said that he had never beheld 
such a wizened, fragile infant. The third year 
another child was born and died, and this time Hal- 
yard was almost crazed with horror. All three 
children had been born on the same day, the anni- 
versary of the day on which, years before, he had 
hurled Guttorm into the river. He saw it all plainly 
— the Lord’s hand lay heavily upon him. 

Guri seemed about to succumb to the loss of the 
last child. The physician had given up all hope of 
her recovery, and Halyard felt a sort of consolation 
in the thought that this was to be his punishment ; 
then Heaven would be appeased. But the result 
differed from his expectations. Slowly, very slowly, 
she once more regained her strength, like a tram- 
pled flower whose roots still retain some lingering 
vitality. 

Halvard at first watched her convalescence with 
cold indifference, then with anxiety, and at last with 
indignation. He had secretly hoped to appease 
God by her death and then to marry the widow of 
a rich lumber dealer in Drammen — and now ! 

His house became a prison, dreary, empty, and 
joyless. He began to hate the pale, quiet shadow, 
who obeyed him in everything and flitted through 
the large vacant rooms as noiselessly as a ghost. 
She could not help it, she did not even suspect it, 


226 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


yet nevertheless she was his evil genius, she re- 
minded him of Guttorm, of his crime, of the river. 

There were moments when he longed to kill her, 
but he had not the courage. He felt as if all 
strength had deserted him and he was under a ban. 
He needed forgetfulness, so he returned to his old 
habits. From the day of his betrothal to Guri he 
had not touched a drop of gin ; he had instinctively 
felt this to be necessary, if he desired to win her 
love. He had at times felt a desire for it, but now 
that the shadows closed so darkly around the temp- 
tation became too great — he was no longer capable 
of resisting it. Guri wept and entreated him to 
abstain for her sake. His answer was a torrent of 
abuse and constant association with all the dissolute 
people in the neighborhood. In other respects he 
pursued exactly the same course as before ; he 
drank with locked doors and usually on Saturday 
evenings. Sunday morning he went to church com- 
pelling Guri to accompany him in her handsomest 
clothes. In the evening he played cards with the 
pastor, and returned home sober and full of pious 
talk. 

Guri made no comment upon these things. 
She felt that the tie between them was sundered 
and secretly rejoiced, for his caresses had always 
been repulsive to her. 

When his longing for drink assailed him, she 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


m 

locked herself in her room and opened the door to 
no one. One evening he came raving through the 
shop and demanded admittance. In her terror she 
crept behind the bed and concealed herself among 
the curtains. He raged outside like a wild beast, 
using words so horrible that she shivered with 
fright. Suddenly he flung himself against the door 
so violently that the walls shook and the lock yield- 
ing, he fell headlong on the floor. In an agony of 
fear Guri darted past him out of the house, down 
the steps, into the garden, where the wall stopped 
her or she would have plunged over the precipice. 
She stood still a moment as though rooted to the 
earth. His voice, raised in furious wrath, echoed 
behind her and she knew no way of escape save the 
stairs leading along the edge of the river to the 
miller’s house, which she dared not take, the steps 
were so old and decayed, and one slip would hurl 
her to a terrible death. 

Halvard rushed out of the door like a madman, 
but when he saw her in the moonlight bending over 
the wall, he uttered a hoarse cry, clenched his fists, 
and retreated inside the dwelling. Soon after she 
heard the heavy bolts pushed across the door lead- 
ing from the garden into the courtyard, and realized 
that she would be obliged to spend the cold autumn 
night shut out from her home. Never before had 
he carried his cruelly to such extremes. 


228 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


Weeping bitterly, she sat down on the edge of 
the wall, determined to wait until he took pity on 
her ! Above her head the moon sailed through the 
cloudless sky, below her dashed the torrent, seeth- 
ing, thundering, and sending a shower of white 
foam upwards. Suddenly a thought darted through 
her brain, drops of cold perspiration covered her 
forehead, and hurrying away from the wall she 
sought shelter under the cliff. The house stood 
steeped in the clear, cold moonlight; some of its 
windows were still lighted ; but gradually these, 
too, grew dark. Soon after there was a movement 
near the door, then Guri heard a cry, followed by a 
fierce oath — it was Halvard driving one of the maid- 
servants back into the house, with the threat that he 
would kill any one who dared to set foot across the 
threshold. Silence, deathlike silence followed. 
The night was damp and icy cold. Guri trembled 
with fear, cold, and anxiety for what might cotne. 
At last she could bear this state of things no longer 
and, shivering violently, approached the stone wall 
— this was her only means of escape, a dangerous 
one, but her deadly terror forced her to risk it. 
The decaying wooden staircase, whose steps led 
down to the mill, overhung the river. Once it had 
been perfectly safe, a railing had afforded greater 
security and the steps were so strong that the farm- 
hands could carry heavy sacks of grain up and down. 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


229 


But, since the new path had been made, the stairs 
had not been used for years and it was considered 
extremely dangerous to step on them. 

Yet she seemed to have no other choice. She 
feared neither the night, the solitude, nor the strange 
unfamiliar voices of nature that reached her ear, 
sometimes from the forest, sometimes from the 
river. No, it was the thought which had suddenly 
entered her mind as she gazed into the rushing 
torrent, the thought that returned again and again, 
growing more and more distinct, a fancy that the 
stream was calling her, luring her into its depths as 
if there alone could she find rest, forgetfulness of all 
she had suffered. 

Closing her eyes, Guri let herself slip down the 
side of the wall. Her feet found support on the damp, 
narrow wooden steps, but when she tried to cling 
to them, the upper one came off in her hand and the 
others were not much better. Nevertheless, she 
went down farther and farther, heard the roar of 
the water grow louder at every step, felt the spray 
wet her clothing, and the mouldering wood yield 
more and more under her weight. Now and then a 
step would be missing, others were so loose that 
they fell at the lightest touch. She closed her eyes, 
let herself slide down haphazard, and fell against 
some hard object. 

When she rose she found herself at the foot of the 


230 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


mill whose wheel was turned by the stream, and 
looked up at the way by which she had come. For 
a distance of more than three ells all the steps 
were missing, yet she had escaped alive! It was a 
miracle. 

From the mill a path led along the precipice 
to the house where Vandfald-Johann lived. He and 
the stream had always been inseparable friends, for 
the little house he now occupied was his birthplace; 
his father had owned the mill before him. Nay, he 
was indebted to the river for his name. One day, 
when a very little boy, while carrying some dinner 
to his father, who was dragging timber across the 
ice, he fell through a crack behind the cataract. 
The shining buttons on his jacket could be distinctly 
seen glittering through the water which poured in 
a wide curve over him. There he stood for two 
hours until people succeeded in throwing him a long 
rope weighted with lead. When safely on shore 
again, he received his nickname — every child in the 
parish knew Vandfald-Johann; his real one was 
known only to himself. Afterwards he inherited 
the house and mill, which he would not sell, though 
rich Halvard Sannindsen had offered large sums 
for the property. Vandfald-Johann remained faith- 
ful to his home and the tradition. Even when the 
master of Fosnas built the wall and thus cut off the 
direct path to the mill, its owner would not yield. 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


231 


Quietly leaving the stairs to decay, he had built a 
wooden bridge across the water, over which, by 
taking a short circuit, customers could reach him 
as easily as before. He suffered little loss by Hal- 
vard’s trick, for the peasants, perceiving its injus- 
tice, preferred to take their grain to him rather than 
to have it ground by Halvard’s new mill-stones, 
even if they were run by steam. The owner of 
Fosnas knew that he was in the wrong, and, there- 
fore, hated the miller so much the more. Neverthe- 
less, he always shunned him ; no one knew why, 
however, and if anybody warned Johann to beware 
of Halvard he merely shrugged his shoulders, just 
as though he were the wealthy master of Fosnas 
and Halvard the poor miller. 

Light shone cheerily from the little house, which 
almost overhung the water. Guri knocked at the 
door and, as no one answered, opened it. The small 
entry was empty and so was the kitchen, where a 
large gray cat lay near the fire. Guri softly entered 
the third room used as sitting-room and bed-cham- 
ber. The light she had seen was burning in the 
middle of a table in the center, with an old Bible open 
beside it. A large bedstead stood by one wall, and 
on the opposite side a huge old-fashioned wooden 
chest. Wall-flowers were blooming on the window- 
sill and the smell of fresh meal filled the room. Out- 
side, the river roared and seethed, sprinkling its white 


232 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


foam over the window-panes. Within, an atmos- 
phere of rest, peace, and kindness greeted her. The 
cat rubbed, mewing, against her, put its fore-paws 
in her lap, and began to purr. Guri stroked the 
animal which, thus encouraged, jumped on the table 
and almost upset the light. Guri steadied it, trimmed 
the wick, and then perceived above the door an in- 
scription which had been carved by Johann with the 
utmost care. It ran as follows : 

“ Each time that thou this door dost ope, 

Bethink thee well of our sure hope, 

Amid this sad world’s toil and strife, 

Our Brother, Christ, the door of life.” 

• 

It was certainly no very remarkable poetical pro- 
duction, yet the simple words, the only lines Vandfald- 
Johann had ever written, contained something which 
roused a feeling akin to devotion. Their almost 
childish artlessness dispelled the evil thoughts which 
had weighed so heavily upon her soul while sitting 
on the wall. She had believed that she had found 
a door of her own by which she could flee from the 
toils and struggles of this earth ly life. Here another 
door opened, a door which, by fidelity and sacrifice, 
led to the true life. She clasped her hands, murmur- 
ing “ Yes, I will go through that door.” 

Just at that moment the sand on the floor of the 
entry creaked, the cat leaped down from the table, 
and Vandfald-Johann, bearing a willow-basket on 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


233 


his back, stood before Guri. Gazing at her in as- 
tonishment, he laid a fresh faggot on the blazing 
hearth, and asked : 

“ Where did you come from so late, Guri?” 

“ From Fosnas,” she replied. 

“ Indeed? I did not meet you on the road.” 

“ No, I came by the mill-stairs.” 

“ The mill-stairs ?” repeated Johann staring at her. 
“ There’s no way by the mill-stairs now.’ 

“Yes, I came down the wooden steps,” Guri 
answered. 

“ You are not in the habit of telling lies, Guri,” 
replied Vandfald-Johann, to whom the path by the 
mill-stairs was a sore point. “Do you suppose I have 
forgotten that Halvard blocked the way to my mill 
with his stone- wall?” 

“ Yet I came down the steps.” 

Vandfald-Johann looked at her incredulously, 
shook his head, loosed the rope of his basket, and 
threw a handful of twigs on the fire, where the 
flames blazed brightly and the kettle began to sing. 
Then hanging his basket carefully on the wall, he 
asked : “ Do you use that way often ?” 

“ You can see for yourself,” replied Guri, leaning, 
utterly exhausted, against the table. 

“ 1 must first stop the mill,” returned Johann, 
“ then I can speedily discover whether you are try- 
ing to make a fool of me.” 


234 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


A moment after Guri heard the mill stop and 
Johann soon returned — his face was deadly pale as 
he came up to her. 

“ Were you in fear of your life, did any one force 
you to take that way?” he asked, grasping her 
hand. “ The last six steps of the stairs are gone.” 

“ I slipped down part of the way,” replied Guri, 
lowering her eyes. 

“And fell close by the river,” Johann added. “ I 
saw the print of your shoe on the edge of the bank. 
Where would you have been now, if you had 
slipped those two paces farther ?” 

Guri shuddered. 

* Child, why did you take that way?” asked 
Johann, laying his trembling hand on her shoulder. 
“ Did you wish to tempt Providence ?” 

The question touched the sore spot which the 
thought that had entered her mind while sitting on 
the stone-wall had left in her heart — and the mild, 
gentle tone reminded Guri of her childhood and her 
mother. She had never spoken of her married life 
to any one. Misfortune makes us hard, and at the 
sound of Johann’s steps outside, she had tried to find 
some plausible falsehood to cloak her strange noc- 
turnal pilgrimage. She had firmly resolved not to 
permit even Vandfald-Johann, whom she had known 
so many years, to have a glimpse of her soul. He 
should be the last to know how she suffered — but 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


235 


now, just after her escape from mortal peril, when 
his gentle voice and trembling hand revealed his 
deep sympathy, the crust of ice in which she had 
encased her heart melted, and tears streamed from 
her eyes. 

“ He drove me out of the house,” she sobbed. 
“Who?” 

“ Halvard, my husband,” she whispered. “ He 
tortures me like a brute, and my life is not safe 
under his roof.” 

A shadow flitted over the old man’s face, and he 
suddenly looked paler, older than before. 

“ Do you mean that he would be capable of kill- 
ing you ?” he asked slowly, and she felt his hands 
tremble. “ Yet, why not! But you, too — you too ! 
No, that would be too much.” 

“ What do you mean ? Do you know anything ?” 
cried Guri, growing pale as a corpse. 

“ If I did, I should take care not to tell it,” replied 
Johatan, hurriedly closing the Bible. “ I can say 
only this, he would doubtless far rather kill me than 
you.” 

“ What do you know?” asked Guri again, look- 
ing earnestly into his eyes. 

Johann avoided her gaze, and answered slowly : 

“ People cannot know everything, and are only 
permitted to repeat the smallest portion of what 
knowledge they do possess. Our tongues may be 


236 


THE LAST SOLE.T. 


bound by an oath, but of this 1 am sure — if 1 can 
once get speech with Halvard Samundsen, you will 
be left in peace from that hour. Shall I see him ?” 

Guri gazed at him in astonishment, then nodded 
assent. 

“ Can I help you in any other way ?” asked Vand- 
fald-Johann, moving towards the kitchen, where the 
water was boiling in the tea-kettle. 

“ I thank you,” replied Guri, “ but I need nothing 
but rest !” 

“ Then I’ll bid you good-night, if you can sleep on 
my hard bed. Early to-morrow morning I will go 
with you to Fosnas.” 

He shut the door and began to prepare his sup- 
per. Guri, wishing to calm herself by reading, took 
up the Bible. As she laid it on the table the old vol- 
ume opened, and her eye rested on a line, deeply 
underscored. 

“ Thou shalt not kill.” 

Johann had painted a red cross on the margin of 
the page and written something in ink under it, but 
the words were already so faded that she could not 
decipher them. “ Johann ! Johann !” she whis- 
pered, tapping at the door. 

Johann opened it and, seeing the Bible in her 
hand, said : 

“I thank you for bringing me the book which has 
been my companion on many a wakeful night. But 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


237 

you must go to sleep now. You need have no fear, 
I will lock you in.” 

He took the Bible as he spoke and locked the 
door. Guri slowly undressed, but she could not 
sleep. The torrent roared so loudly, scattering its 
spray aloft, and the silvery moonbeams were re- 
flected in the white drops. In a condition midway 
between sleep and waking she watched the white 
waves, but a blood-red cross floated high on their 
crests, and a voice from the depths seemed to be 
constantly repeating: “Thou shalt not kill.” 

What did Vandfald-Johann know? This was her 
last thought before she fell asleep, and the first 
when she awoke. Johann’s honest, weatherbeaten 
old face, which she had known so many years, 
appeared before her, and his voice said : 

“ It’s seven o’clock, we must set out for Fosnas.” 

At this moment it seemed to Guri as if all her 
nocturnal thoughts had been mere idle dreams. 

“ Thank you, but it will be best for me to go 
alone.” 

Nevertheless the old man went with her as far as 
the courtyard. Everything about the house was 
silent and deserted. The people had all started at 
sunrise to search for Guri. 

Halvard was sleeping off his potations behind 
locked doors and Guri, who knew how he behaved 
if disturbed, entreated Johann to go back. Soon 


238 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


afterwards some of the servants returned and the 
old man departed, nodding significantly to Guri, 
as he said : “ He still has the ham in pickle with 
me, I’ll be ready for him this afternoon. Then you 
shall see that I can preach as well as the pastor.” 

Guri pretended not to understand him, but she 
felt sure that something was buried under the red 
cross. What that something might be she dared not 
guess, with all her strength she repressed the 
thought. 

* * * * * * 

Towards evening, to her great alarm, Johann 
really did return and she was obliged to let him go 
in to Halvard’s room, the latter having announced 
his waking by pacing to and fro and hoarsely 
clearing his throat. Guri stood trembling at the 
door, scarcely daring to breathe, fearing every 
second to see Johann come flying out of the window 
or rolling down the steps. She would as willingly 
have shut him up with a raging bear just roused 
from slumber. 

To her surprise, however, Halvard did not seem 
disposed to use either of these means of getting 
rid of his visitor. When Johann entered he at first 
muttered like an angry bull, but this muttering 
soon ceased and the conversation was carried on in 
tones so low that, no matter how intently she listen- 
ed, she could hear nothing. True, several times 


THE EAST SOLEJ. 


239 


Halvard growled something but, as soon as Johann 
said a few words in answer, the growling ceased, 
and Guri almost fancied she heard a suppressed 
sob. 

Shortly after, Halvard tottered out and humbly 
asked Guri to get supper; Vandfald-Johann would 
spend the evening with him. As she stood gazing 
timidly at him he came up to her, entreated her 
forgiveness, and finally attempted to kiss her. But 
she shrank away with a horror never experienced 
before. His eyes were bloodshot, and it seemed as 
though she were meeting the angry glare of some 
half-tamed wild beast. 

Johann remained all the evening, and when he 
went away Halvard accompanied him across the 
courtyard, and said that perhaps it would be best 
for all concerned to have the old road to the mill 
opened again. Guri did not know what to think. 
She dreaded being alone with him and trembled 
from head to foot when she heared his heavy tread 
approaching; but he vanished into the room where 
he had been talking with Johann, and she heard 
him locking and unlocking trunks and boxes, mut- 
tering softly to himself. Soon after, he entered 
Guri’s room, dragging a quantity of heavy silk 
skirts, jackets, and caps, enough to stock a fair. 
She should have them all, with clasps, buckles, and 


240 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


silver chains a finger thick. But all must be for- 
given and forgotten ; he would be a different man. 

And he was a different man in so far that, from 
that day, he permitted Guri to have her own way 
in everything and never attacked her. Of course, it 
was impossible to restore their former relations — 
the gulf was too wide and Guri’s aversion was too 
strong for that — but she could live as she pleased on 
condition that she permitted him to do the same. 
Without any open breach, they tacitly agreed to 
occupy separate wings of the house, where each 
received his or her friends and acquaintances. Guri 
chose the rooms looking out upon the garden and 
the river ; Halvard’s faced the forest. Guri had the 
sunlight and the view of the stream winding like a 
foaming silver ribbon through the narrow valley. 
Halvard’s apartments, on the contrary, were dark, 
gloomy, and pervaded by a cellar-like atmosphere 
which, however, seemed by no means disagreeable 
to him. Guri was visited by the old women of the 
parish, Vandfald-Johann, and the poor. Halvard by 
the pastor and some boon companions. Shouts and 
screams, singing and quarreling were often heard in 
his wing until late at night, except on Saturdays and 
Sundays; on those days it was always quiet. On 
Saturdays he always played cards with the pastor and 
the sexton, and on Sundays he went to church and 
in the evenings continued his game with the pastor. 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


Ml 


Now he usually got drunk on Wednesdays — for 
Halvard was a business-man, and liked order and 
method in everything. Guri grieved secretly, not 
for Halvard, but for the disgrace he brought upon 
the whole farm. The more careless and negligent he 
became, the more industriously she attended to the 
business, but in a quiet unobtrusive way, never 
crossing him. Many helped her, unsuspected by 
Halvard, and she worked the harder the more plainly 
she saw that he had wrongfully appropriated the 
property of others. 

During the long winter evenings, while she sat 
alone in her room, toiling over the complicated 
account books, she could not help feeling a certain 
anxiety which, amid the profound stillness surround- 
ing her, finally increased to actual terror. Since 
the night at the mill she had often talked to Vand- 
fald-Johann and entreated him to tell her the mean- 
ing of the red cross, but the old man, usually so 
loquacious, was silent as the grave on this point. 

Guri, who, when a child, had heard of the English- 
man’s disappearance, thought that Johann probably 
knew more about the matter than most people. Yet 
she did not venture to question him directly ; she 
felt a vague fear of having her suspicion confirmed. 
The idea that the cross might have some reference 
toGuttorm never entered her brain. He must have 
found an early death somewhere in that distant land 


242 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


where the sun of her happiness had set, or he 
would surely have sent for her long ago. 

So the years rolled on, equally uneventful, equally 
sad ! Spring had come again, the snow was melting, 
the river was swollen, and the birches were putting 
out shining young leaves. Halvard’s logs danced 
down the stream like floating matches. He had 
been to Dram men, where he had driven a good bar- 
gain, and came back from the city with some lumber- 
dealers on Wednesday evening. Guri saw a light 
in the large room behind the shop, so she knew that 
he had returned and what would inevitably follow. 
At midnight she heard singing and laughter, a 
wild medley of men’s and women’s voices; but she 
was so accustomed to it that she only bolted her 
door more securely before she went to rest. 

To-night, however, the uproar seemed worse than 
usual. She could not sleep, for all the windows in 
the opposite wing stood open and the ravings of 
the drunken crew were doubly repulsive in the 
clear Spring night. But soon after twelve o’clock 
everything became quiet. She heard the strangers’ 
carriages roll away, though Halvard swore and 
entreated them to stay until morning. Then she 
heard him staggering about his room the doors 
were banged noisily, and the windows shut. Next 
came the heavy fall so familiar to Guri’s ears. 

She rose and drew back the curtain to see that he 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


243 


did no mischief with the lamp. No — everything 
was dark save for the faint glimmer of the approach- 
ing dawn on the opposite windows. The sparrows 
were already beginning to twitter in the courtyard, 
a thrush was singing softly from the clump of dark 
fir-trees in the garden and the roar of the torrent 
rose from the valley, now louder, now fainter, just 
as the wind bore the sound to her ears. Guri went 
to bed, repeated her evening prayer, and soon fell 
into a deep slumber. 

The next day passed as usual. Halvard asked 
for neither breakfast nor dinner, but this was his 
custom, he rarely ate anything on Thursdays. 
Towards the afternoon she went over to his wing 
to get money for a poor woman who had sought 
her aid, and thought it strange that she heard no 
movement in the back-room. The servants, too, 
had neither heard nor seen Halvard, and as the 
door was still locked, Guri supposed that he had not 
yet slept off his intoxication. Towards evening she 
again went to his room and put her ear against the 
door, but the stillness was so death-like that she 
distinctly heard the throbbing of her own heart. 
Holding her breath, she listening intently. No, 
there was no sound save the ticking of the clock 
and the drip of the brandy from the casks. 

It was the silence of death! With a cry she 
rushed into the shop, calling for help. 


244 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


But the door of Halyard’s sanctuary was no 
ordinary one, and he had bolted it the night before 
with special care. Guri, pale as death, stood hold- 
ing a light for the servant who was forcing it open 
with an axe, while two more strong men pressed 
their whole weight against it. At last, with a loud 
crash, the door yielded and the men were in the 
room, but they rushed out as quickly as they had 
entered. By the dim light Guri saw Halyard lying 
on his back, with his limbs doubled under him ; one 
hand grasped the key of his money-chest, the other 
was pressed convulsively upon his heart. His eyes 
and mouth were wide open and, but for their fixed 
expression, one might have supposed him to be 
asleep, for his features were not distorted and the 
red flush still remained on his face. 

The doctor was instantly summoned, but he had 
been sent for to some place among the mountains 
and no one knew when he would return. When he 
reached Fosnas — about midnight — he found Guri 
cold and tearless, in a strange state of feverish ex- 
citement. She would not look upon her husband 
again, declaring that he looked like some slaughtered 
animal. It required long persuasion from the phy- 
sician to induce her to enter the dark room. The 
corpse lay in precisely the same position. Guri had 
forbidden every one to touch it, and she . had not the 
courage to do so herself ; she had the dread we feel 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


245 


towards a dead wasp, which we fancy may yet 
sting. 

The doctor examined the body, shook his head, 
examined it again — it might be heart-disease, but the 
case was very strange. Death had apparantly oc- 
curred, but nevertheless many signs existed which 
made it doubtful. Guri must watch the corpse ; he 
would come the next morning and write the certifi- 
cate of death. 

With these words he took his departure. 

Guri stood as if petrified ; she felt as though she 
were dreaming. She was like a prisoner suddenly 
released from the fetters which for years have cut 
into his flesh. She had felt no pleasure in Halvard’s 
death, only a sense of freedom. And now ? Could 
it be possible? Was he really still alive? Might he 
recover to forge new chains, to lead her back to the 
dark, cheerless dungeon in which she had languished 
for so many years ? She trembled at the bare 
thought, yet there was something from which she 
shrank still more — the watch with the corpse. A 
long, anxious night entirely alone with the lifeless 
body of the man whom she had never been able to 
love, and who — a secret voice told her — had left this 
world with a heavy sin on his conscience ! The red 
cross in Johann’s Bible seemed to her excited imag- 
ination to be* hovering on the wall above Halvard’s 
bed — n o, it was only the shadow of the key of the 


246 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


strong box. But to be alone with him — with a 
murderer — and suppose he should return to life? 

Yet she must do it — she could not acknowledge 
her fear to the servants. 

So she sat in the gloomy back-room through the 
long Spring night; the light flared unsteadily at 
every gust of wind that blew against the panes. She 
was full of anxiety and horror, and prayed fervently 
that God would be merciful to Halvard’s soul ! A 
storm was raging outside and the rain beat against 
the windows. Suddenly she started up, gazed in 
terror at the bed, and held her breath to listen. No, 
the sigh she fancied she had heard could not have 
come from his lips. Halvard still lay silent and 
motionless; but why did he not look pale like other 
dead people? She sank back into her chair, and the 
wick of the candle grew like some fiery, poisonous 
fungus, but she dared not rise to trim it, what should 
she do in the dark room if it went out? 

Again the rain beat against the panes and the 
tempest howled ; a gust of wind swept through the 
room, the wick of the candle scattered sparks of 
fire. Guri started ; was she trembling, or did the 
floor shake under her feet? She rose. Again she 
heard a sigh, this time an unmistakable sigh from 
the bed, followed by a gurgling sound. Guri stood 
rigid with terror, then her trembling “hand grasped 
the candle. It must be done, she was his wife. 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


247 


Tottering like a somnambulist she went to the bed, 
raised the candle, and gazed at him in terror. Hal- 
yard lay just as before, rigid and motionless, only 
she saw in the left corner of his mouth some blood- 
tinged foam. She stooped to wipe it away, and 
while her face was close to his another sigh escaped 
his chest and his eyes opened. With a piercing 
shriek Guri dropped the candle and fell fainting on 
the floor. When she recovered her senses, the first 
ray of sunshine was breaking through the clouds 
and by its light she saw a pool of blood beside the 
bed — her own clothes were stained with it. 

In the morning Halyard’s relatives came, and with 
them the doctor. Guri told him of the horrible 
incident which had occurred during the night, but 
he took the matter very quietly, saying that such 
things were not unusual with very full-blooded peo- 
ple who died suddenly. After examining the body 
again, he wrote the certificate of death and said that 
they might now proceed with the arrangements for 
the funeral. Guri did not know the customs of that 
part of the country, but Halyard’s relations relieved 
her of all care. 

They were all rich peasants and thought Hal- 
yard Samundsen had lowered himself by marry- 
ing a poor girl like Guri. They had not con- 
cealed this opinion during his life-time and, now 
that lie was dead, it seemed to afford them special 


248 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


satisfaction to make Guri feel their contempt. 
Though she was now owner of the house and sole 
heiress of Halyard’s property, the brothers behaved 
as though they had the whole direction of affairs. 
They meant to see that their brother had a fitting 
funeral, yes, that they would. They had attended 
funerals enough ; they knew that there must be no 
lack of liquor; they would see to it that their 
brother’s burial was talked about as far as Chris- 
tiania ! 

Guri felt offended, humbled, scorned, but she kept 
silence and permitted them to do their will. Heaven 
be praised, they could not recall him to life. There 
was but one point in the elaborate details of the 
burial on which she could not agree with the 
brothers. She knew far better than any one else 
the strange aversion the dead man had always cher- 
ished for the part of the house facing the river, and 
therefore she wished to have the funeral procession 
start from the rooms Halvard had occupied. But 
the brothers would not hear of it. A man like Hal- 
vard not be permitted to lie in his coffin in his own 
best room, the funeral procession not take the direct 
way to the church ! Doubtless they ought to steal 
out of some back-door in order not to disturb the 
Lady of Fosnas ! No, they would show the neigh- 
borhood what sort of man Halvard Samundsen had 
been, and the pastor should deliver an address as 


THE LAST SOLEJ." 


249 


long as the room, and they would provide plenty of 
white sand and gay flowers — there were enough, and 
to spare, of the latter in the garden. 

Guri silently locked herself into her chamber, 
leaving the brothers to have their own way and to 
attend to everything. 

The day of the funeral came, a bright Spring-day, 
with green trees, singing birds, rippling streams, and 
fragrant flowers — it seemed as if earth knew nothing 
of death and change, and down the valley, at the 
foot of the precipice, the river dashed foaming and 
surging, for this Spring its waters were deeper and 
fuller than they had ever been within the memory 
of man. At the corner, where the tall birch-trees 
stood, the stream made a curve, the spray dashed 
against the high cliff, rushed over the huge bould- 
ers which it had polished round and smooth in the 
course of the centuries, and then, with a bold leap, 
suddenly plunged over the cliff, whirling, foaming, 
seething, falling from ledge to ledge with a thun- 
derous roar, to vanish among the rocks below, 
whence it flowed swiftly on again, moistening the 
edge of the garden with its spray, which glittered 
and sparkled in the sunlight like a myriad rainbows. 

In this garden had gathered the members of the 
parish who, though not expressly invited to the 
funeral, had desired to attend it. They stood in 
little groups, whispering together, the men apart 


250 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


from the women, discussing the probable amount 
of Halvard Samundsen’s wealth, and whether his 
brothers, the rich lumber-dealers from Drammen, 
would inherit it, or if he had left it all to Guri, 
who, in the latter case would, of course, marry 
again, they all agreed upon that. 

It was unanimously admitted that Halvard Sam- 
undsen of Fosnas would take barrels full of gold 
with him into the grave, and this opinion was 
strengthened by those who came from the church- 
yard, where they had been looking at the place of 
interment; for Halvard was not to be buried like 
ordinary men, but placed in a vault. Such a thing 
had never been seen in the parish, not even when 
the rich farmer Johann died — a man at least as 
wealthy as Halvard. The old women said that lit- 
tle good could come of it; for whoever shunned 
lying in Christian soil, like other men, must not 
wonder if the last trumpet did not rouse him on the 
day of judgment. 

But this opinion was only whispered in corners, 
chiefly by those who had not liked the rich man 
during his life. Most people admired the splendid 
and substantial fashion in which the burial-place 
had been built. Even Christiania could hardly 
boast so strong an iron railing and colossal a monu- 
ment as were to adorn Halvard’s grave. They for- 
got one thing, howeyer— that Halvard himself had 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


251 


ordered these things, and even given the most 
minute directions in his will for the purchase of 
everything that could lend magnificence and pomp 
to his funeral. 

In the best-room, which was completely hung 
with black, the folding-doors leading into the gar- 
den were flung wide open, so that the crowd out- 
side could look into this innermost sanctuary, where 
the invited guests had assembled. The coffin, sur- 
rounded by wax-candles, whose red flames flickered 
in the draught, stood on trestles facing the garden. 
The sunbeams streamed through the open doors 
and stole through a chink in the window, falling in 
flickering spots on the lower part of the coffin-lid. 
The floor was covered with pine boughs and the 
room was crowded with dark figures with weather- 
beaten faces and horny hands — workmen and wood- 
cutters, who had been invited in order to carry the 
corpse the long distance to the churchyard. 

Behind these clumsy figures,- clad in rough frieze 
blouses, which smelt musty, Halvard’s friends and 
relations sat on long, black-draped benches. They 
were rich farmers, lumber-dealers, and owners of 
saw-mills, and were placed exactly according to the 
size and weight of their money-bags. The conver- 
sation was carried on in short, whispered sentences, 
a heavy, oppressive atmosphere brooded over the 
whole assembly— a peculiar blending of the odor of 


252 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


flowers, pine-boughs, and mould — and all gazed out 
into the sunshine gilding the laughing valley with 
its changeful radiance, and secretly wished that the 
pastor would come. 

But the pastor did not arrive ! Minute after 
minute passed, a quarter of an hour, half an hour 
elapsed — still no pastor ! The air in the large 
crowded room grew heavier and more oppressive, 
the scent of the pine boughs sharper and more pun- 
gent, the whispered talk carried on in corners 
louder and more anxious — but the pastor did not 
come. The golden sunbeams that had flickered on 
the foot of the coffin moved higher and rested on 
the fragrant garland Guri had woven, then they 
reached a wide opening in the hangings and sud- 
denly merged into a warm, rosy flood of sunshine, a 
stream of light in which the dust-motes danced like 
drops of blood. 

“Where the deuce is the pastor?” one of the 
brothers exclaimed. “Surely he hasn’t fallen into 
the river !” 

The carelessly uttered suggestion sent a slight 
shiver through the assembled mourners — the older 
people in the parish had not yet forgotten the 
Englishman, others had heard rumors of the story, 
and a death-like silence instantly followed — an 
oppressive pause in both words and thoughts, which 
rested like a nightmare on the company. The 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


253 


brothers felt it, and the oldest one said in an awk- 
ward, boastful fashion : 

“ I must beg our honored guests’ pardon. We 
are expecting a Councilor of State from Christiania. 
Possibly he has stopped at the pastor’s to take a 
little rest after the long journey.” 

The words seemed to disperse at a blow all the 
dark shadows hovering in the air. A Councilor 
of State ! Heavens and earth ! Surely they could 
afford to wait a little while for such a personage. 
All knew that Halvard Samundsen of Fosnas had 
been a rich man, whose logs were floated down tQ 
Christiania for all the public buildings ; but that a 
Councilor of State, a real live Councilor of State, 
should come up the river as far as Fosnas was a 
thing nobody had ever imagined. The news spread 
like wild-fire from the men in the dark room to the 
throng in the garden, and all strove to get a glimpse 
of the Councilor of State — the pastor was for- 
gotten, and even Halvard Samundsen was left to 
oblivion. All eyes gazed down the sun-lit valley 
where the iron suspension bridge looked like a black 
line against the foaming river and the road wound 
up the hill in zigzag curves like a pale grey serpent.* 

Suddenly a buzz of admiration ran through the 
garden, widening in larger and larger circles till, to 
the amazement of the brothers, it entered the room 
where the coffin stood. 


254 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


“ The Councilor of State is coming !” ran the 
murmur. “ He’s down in the valley,” and in truth 
three figures appeared, sharply relieved against the 
light-blue sky, just at the point where the road 
made a bend near the suspension bridge. 

The first was the pastor, they could recognize 
him by his canonicals, the second was a broad- 
shouldered man dressed in black, at least a head 
taller than the clergyman — it must be the Councilor 
of State. Then came a small, bent figure in peasant 
costume — the far-sighted thought he resembled 
Vandfald-Johann, but why in the world should the 
old man come to Halvard Samundsen’s burial ? 
The group crossed the bridge, vanished in the green 
birch wood, emerged into the sunlit road, and then 
vanished again ; but the nearer they 7 came the more 
evident it was to the watchers that there had been 
no mistake. Two of the men were certainly the 
pastor and Vandfald-Johann ; but who was the giant 
walking between them, dressed in a fine cloth coat 
and high hat, and wearing a full beard? Was that 
the attire of a Councilor of State ? 

The attention of those in the room had also been 
attracted by the approaching figures, and the guests 
nearest to the door jostled and pushed one another 
to get a better view. In the confusion one of the 
black hangings was torn from the window, and the 
sun, which had hitherto stolen in like a thief, now 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


255 


poured a full crimson stream of light upon the coffin, 
so that the brothers were obliged to shade their 
eyes— the change was too sudden. 

Some of the women attempted to force a passage 
through the throng in order to fasten the hanging 
up again, but, meanwhile, some of the candles at 
the head of the bier were upset, the pine boughs 
began to catch fire and, amid the general confusion, 
the women were crowded back again. At the same 
instant the doorway was darkened, the three new 
arrivals entered one after another, the pastor first, 
then the giant, and finally Vandfald-Johann, who 
slipped shyly into a corner. The pastor seemed 
greatly excited — but that might have been due to 
the exertion of the walk. When he reached the foot 
of the coffin, he turned toward the Councilor of State 
and was heard to whisper: “ I cannot, it is impossible. 
You ask too much.” 

“ I ask only the truth,” replied the giant, setting 
his foot on the highest step of the platform. 

“ Why disturb the peace of the grave? There is 
no proof, I tell you.” 

“ Go on, pastor, and perform the duties of your 
office,” answered the giant, leaning against the wall 
with his arms folded across his chest. 

All eyes were fixed upon the stalwart, athletic fig- 
ure which, without any salutation to those present, 


256 


THE LA8T SOLEJ. 


stood like a column with his keen gray eyes bent 
steadily upon the coffin-lid. Was he the Councilor 
of State? Impossible! What resemblance could 
there be between a Councillor of State, bowed by 
years and the dignity of his office, and this vigorous, 
broad-shouldered man, whose head, covered with 
waving locks of thick fair hair, towered above every 
one else? Yet, so far as dress and bearing were 
concerned, he was well suited for the position. 
There was something peculiar in his whole appear- 
ance — a foreign, distinguished air. His clothes were 
plain, but fitted him perfectly, and their cut revealed 
the workmanship of a foreign tailor. The black 
trousers and coat, buttoned to the throat, were made 
of fine cloth, and the tall, broad-brimmed black hat 
gave him somewhat the aspect of an English clergy- 
man, a resemblance heightened by the stern, grave 
expression of his face. He wore no jewelry, and 
had not even put on gloves, but his hands were as 
white as the linen he wore. A bunch of violets, 
fastened in his button-hole, exhaled a strong fragrance 
and looked like an order of knighthood. The 
pastor approached the coffin, clasped his hands, and 
half shutting his eyes, for the sun was shining 
directly into his face, began : 

“ Give to each person what you owe. Money 
where you owe money, honor where you owe honor, 
and justice where justice is due.” 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


257 


“ Aye, Pastor, so be it,” said the giant, clasping his 
hands over his chest. 

The pastor turned pale, and the schoolmaster, a 
little thin man with bristling hair, forced his way 
through the crowd, looked up at him and said in a 
sing-song tone : “ I must beg you not to interrupt the 
sacred service by looks, words, or gestures, or I 
shall be compelled to show you to the door.” 

The giant leaned back against the wall, which 
creaked under his weight, and looked down at the 
little man’s shock head with a peculiar smile. Some 
one in the corner tittered, and the sexton instantly 
went there to silence the culprit. 

“Yes,” the pastor went on, raising his voice, “ we 
need no longer give money to the sleeper beside 
whose bier we stand, he wants it now as little as he 
did in life, when he always had an abundant store. 
What shall we bestow on him then, dear friends? 
The treasures of this world ? Ah, no ! He had them 
all in abundance to his life’s end! We need give 
nothing of this sort, my hearers. We will only plant 
a beautiful tree on his grave, the tree of honor, for 
honor, honor — ” 

Here the speaker suddenly began to stammer. 
Did the sun trouble him, or had he forgotten the 
speech he had so carefully learned to do honor to the 
companion with whom he had played cards for so 
many years. He cleared his throat, drew out his 


258 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


handkerchief, coughed, in short used all the arts a 
practised speaker always has at hand, but whenever 
he attempted to go on with : “ Honor, my dear 
friends,” an invisible hand seemed to clutch his 
throat and stifle his voice. 

The stranger had changed neither attitude nor bear- 
ing since the luckless word had escaped the pastor’s 
lips. He interrupted him neither by look, word, nor 
gesture as the schoolmaster phrased it. Only his 
eyes rested immovably on the speaker — a pair of 
calm, piercing, steel-gray eyes, which hurled a world 
of contempt and scorn into the preacher’s face and 
compelled him to lower his glance. He stood half 
in shadow, half illumined by the red glow of sun- 
light, and the clear-cut profile, luxuriant beard, and 
waving hair sharply outlined against the sunbeams, 
seemed strangely familiar to the older people, who 
fancied they must have seen them before, yet could 
not tell where. 

“ Honor, my dear friends,” the pastor began again. 

“Read the Lord’s Prayer, Pastor!” said the 
giant’s voice, like a captain issuing his orders from 
the quarter-deck of his ship. 

The pastor started and turned deadly pale. The 
schoolmaster elbowed his way through the throng, 
and, standing on tiptoe, cried in his shrill tones, 
“Might I beg you not to interrupt His Reverence? 
or I shall be compelled to eject you by force.” 


THE LAST SOLE.T. 


259 


'‘Read the Lord's Prayer, Pastor!" thundered the 
stranger again, this time with such emphasis that 
the little schoolmaster, with a start, fell backwards 
over the bench ; the bishop himself could not have 
spoken more authoritatively. 

A restless movement ran through the crowd, 
people put their heads together and whispered, but 
no one ventured any open opposition, the stranger’s 
words sounded as though he had a right to speak 
and was firmly resolved to use it. The school- 
master cast a side-glance at the pastor ; Halvard’s 
two brothers rose with crimson faces. The pastor 
motioned to the schoolmaster to keep silence, and 
whispered a few words to the brothers, upon which 
they resumed their seats. Then, going to the head 
of the coffin, he clasped his hands and said in 
tremulous tones: “ Let us repeat the Lord’s Prayer 
over the sleeper.” 

“Amen!” said the stranger, raising his hat. All 
followed his example, and the prayer was repeated 
amid silence so profound that the roar of the river 
seemed like an interruption. 

When it was over, the clergyman appeared irreso- 
lute. He cleared his throat several times and look- 
ed significantly at the brothers, but they shook 
their heads and remained in their seats. At last, 
wiping the perspiration from his brow, he beckoned 
to the schoolmaster. 


260 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


“ Before we commit this body to consecrated 
ground,” the latter began in a drawling tone, “ we 
will ask whether any one present desires to see the 
dead man ere we screw down the lid and lay his 
earthly remains in the grave.” 

Death-like silence reigned. The roar of the tor- 
rent was again heard, now louder, now fainter, as 
the wind bore the sound to their ears. The sun 
had reached the edge of the woods and now 
touched a mass of clouds like a huge blood-red disk, 
whose rays, illumined the stranger’s whole figure. 

“ Let me see Halvard Samundsen,” he said, 
advancing to the coffin. 

The schoolmaster hesitated, looking inquiringly 
at the pastor ; but the latter, with a heavy sigh, 
nodded assent, and the lid fell slowly back. A faint 
shriek rose from the side of the room where the 
women sat — it was Guri, who fainted and was car- 
ried away. Even the stranger drew back a step 
with an expression of loathing on his calm features 
— and there was ample reason. Halvard lay in the 
full glow of the warm sunshine, clad in his white 
shroud, with his hands clasped on his breast. 

His face was still red and bloated, the coarseness 
and sensuality that had marked the features in life 
were still impressed upon them. The eyes were 
half open and the large pupils peered from beneath 
the lids, they were not glazed, but reflected the sun- 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


561 


beams. The mouth was slightly awry, the left-cor- 
ner drawn down, giving the face a horrible expres- 
sion of roguishness, as though death were only a bad 
joke. Even the clasped hands were still red and 
had fallen a little apart — Halvard Samundsen had 
rarely folded them in life. 

The stranger glanced around the assembled 
throng — every one seemed paralyzed with horror. 
Then, advancing a step nearer to the coffin, he 
raised his hand over it and said in his deep, calm 
voice : 

“ All the lies that can be bought with gold and 
this world’s gear you will hear later at the church- 
yard, and I shall not follow you there. Here you 
shall hear only one word, but it is a word of truth, 
and this truth will pierce your hearts : ‘ Here lies 

a murderer !’ Now go and bury him.” 

The few words, which sounded like a thunderclap, 
had the effect of a thunderbolt. Those who stood 
nearest shrank suddenly away from the coffin, whose 
lid fell rattling on the floor, scattering the flowers in 
every direction. At the same moment a voice in the 
crowd exclaimed : “ That is the truth.” The people 
near the door hurried out. The pastor alone did not 
lose his composure, but turned to the stranger and 
asked : “ By what right do you make this assertion. 
Have you witnesses ?” 

“There stands my witness!” said the stranger, 


262 


THE LAST SOLEJ. 


pointing to Vandfald-Johann — it was he who had 
just spoken. 

“ But that is only one," the pastor answered calmly. 
“ And why did he not speak at the time ?” 

“ Halvard threatened his life,” replied the other, 
“ you know that as well as I do.” 

“ He is but one," the pastor repeated, “ and one 
person may be mistaken. Two witnesses at least 
are required, you have only one. You have no right 
to disturb the peace of the grave and bring shame 
upon the dead man.” 

“ Then let God be my witness ! ” cried the stran- 
ger, solemnly raising his hand. “You are right, 
pastor. I have only one. Very well, I shall go now, 
and you will never see me again. But I have yet a 
word to say to Halvard Samundsen — I would far 
rather have said it to him in life.” 

The pastor waved him back, but he went to the 
foot of the coffin, laid his hand firmly on the dead 
man’s breast, and said, in a voice that thrilled every 
heart : 

“ Halvard Samundsen of Fosnas ! Listen ! you 
shall never find rest in your grave, because you 
basely murdered my young brother, Guttorm Solej.” 

A piercing shriek rang from the next room. 
‘‘Od ! ” cried a weak voice. 

“ Od ! Od of Solej ! ” was whispered in every 
corner. Suddenly a strange creaking noise inter- 


THE LAST 80LEJ. 


263 


rupted the intense stillness. The wood in Halyard’s 
coffin seemed alive. The clasped hands parted, and 
the left arm fell heavily over the edge of the coffin. 
The schoolmaster tried to replace it in the proper 
position, but uttered a yell of horror, for the hand 
of the corpse grasped his so firmly that he could 
scarcely release it. Halyard’s hand fell again, 
groped about an instant, seized the edge of the 
coffin, and the still form slowly rose, the wide-open 
eyes fixed with a spectral glare upon the sun. 

“ God defend us, he is rising ! ” shrieked a wild 
uproar of voices, and in an instant every one took 
flight — it was a scene of unparalleled confusion. 
Doors were opened, curtains torn down, windows 
shattered, for they must escape, escape from this 
terror. The screams were echoed from the garden, 
where half the parish had gathered. Everybody 
was running and pushing, children cried, women 
screamed, no one wished to see the frightful specta- 
cle, yet an awful curiosity held them to the spot. 
The crowd surged to and fro like a stormy sea, and 
listened to the screams of horror which still came 
from the house. 

Suddenly the stillness of death fell upon the as- 
sembly, every one held his breath, no one ventured 
to stir, and the roar and thunder of the cataract was 
distinctly heard. 


264 


THE LAST SOLEJ; 


“ Oh, Lord, there he comes ! ” shrieked a woman’s 
voice, and all eyes turned toward the door. 

And Halvard really did come, with arms out- 
stretched and fingers spread wide apart, muttering 
unintelligible words, as had always been his habit. 
The groping hands caught the rail of the steps, 
down which he tottered like a somnambulist, drag- 
ging the large white shroud after him. The people, 
awe-struck, shrank away, forming a broad, sunlit 
path through which he walked down the garden, 
straight towards the setting sun, which he seemed 
grasping at with his right arm. The spectators, 
rigid with horror, stood watching him. Not a hand 
moved to stop the living spectre, whose crime they 
all knew. The last group parted — and he stood by 
the wall, just at the spot where an opening had been 
made to allow a passage to the mill. Here he 
paused an instant, with the cataract seething and 
hissing at his feet ; but he did not heed it. His gaze 
was fixed upon the sun, the setting sun, which now 
touched the edge of the forest. 

“ Halvard Samundsen, take care !” shouted a 
loud voice from the throng. It was Od, who had 
just left Guri’s bedside. At the same instant the sun 
vanished behind the trees. Halvard made a move- 
ment forwards as if to grasp it and, with extended 
arms, disappeared. The folds of the white pall 
floated to and fro on the waves till it caught upon 


THE LAST SOLEJ 


265 


a rock projecting from the precipice. No cry, no 
sound was heard — the thunder of the cataract 
drowned everything. But farther down, beyond 
the cliffs, the foam whirled in an eddy where 
floated red drops. Then they, too, vanished, and 
the river rushed on white and stainless as ever. 

A week later there was another funeral at Fosnas 
— Guri was borne to her last repose. She had a 
long funeral procession, but no tears of fortunate 
heirs fell on her grave. Od stood silently by it for 
a long time, lovingly arranging the flowers death, 
not life, had bestowed. 

He left the churchyard just at sunset, and paus- 
ing on the little suspension bridge, gazed down the 
valley. Fosnas was steeped in the radiant glow of 
sunlight, all its windows were flashing and spark- 
ling, while Solej lay in the deepest shadow ; the 
river, which above flowed like molten gold, here 
rolled in heavy, leaden \tfaves. Casting one last 
glance at the foaming water, he murmured: 

“ You are avenged, Guttorm !” 

A silver-haired old man on the other side of the 
valley waved a farewell with his cap. Od saw and 
answered the salute. It was Vandfald-Johann tak- 
ing leave of “ The last Solej.” 


THE END. 


LIDA CAMPBELL, 


OR 

DRAMA OF A LIFE. 

51 Jfoml. 


BY 

JEAN KATE LUDLUM, 

Author of “ Under Oath,” “ Under a Cloud,” “ John Win - 
throp's Defeat ” etc . 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. M. EATON. 

12mo. 351 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This beautiful story was written one year ago. Even then the 
author had premonitory symptoms of the fell disease which so 
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For sale by ' . booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, post- 
paid, on r^ _jpt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


THE LITTLE COUNTESS 


E. VON DINCKLAGE, 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 


By S. K. BOGGS. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B, DAVIS, 


12mo. 318 Pag-es. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

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“ The Little Countess” is a delightful novel. It is full of life 
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For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A New Novel by Mrs. Harriet Lewis, 


NEVA’S THREE LOVERS. 

BY 

MRS. HARRIET LEWIS, 


Author of 11 Beatrix Rohan,” “ Lady Kildare ,” “ Her 
Double Life,” etc . 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. M. GREGORY. 


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Mrs. Lewis’s new novel is one to interest every reader, young 
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on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A New American Novel. 


TRANSGRESSING THE LAW. 


BY 

CAPT. FREDERICK WHITTAKER, 

Author of “ The Great Kenton Feud” “ Bel Rubio ,” etc. 


WITH ILL US TEA TIONS BY WARREN B. DA VIS. 


12mo. 300 Pag-es. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


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t For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
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A Thrilling Novel, 


THE HAUNTED HUSBAND. 


BY 

MRS. HARRIET LEWIS, 

Author of “Neva's Three Lovers ,” “ Her Double Life” 
‘ Beatrix Rohan f u Lady Kildare ,” etc . 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY VICTOR PERARD. 


12mo. 393 Pagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
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A BRILLIANT NOVEL. 


ROMANCE OF TROUVILLE 

A JToBtl. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 

BREHAT, 

BY 

META DE VERE, 

T ra?islator of “ Mademoiselle Desrochesf etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WECHSLER. 

12mo. 329 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This is a characteristic story of life in a brilliant French water- 
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